


The Gracekeepers

by wishbonetea



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Big Bang 2020, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Backgrounds, Drowning, F/F, Found Family, Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Rationing Food, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 112,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishbonetea/pseuds/wishbonetea
Summary: The sea has flooded the earth. Allison lives on a circus boat, floating between the scattered islands that remain and trading dazzling and death-defying feats for food from the islanders. Renee lives alone in a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean, with only the birds and fish for company. As penance for her past, she works as a gracekeeper, tending the graves of those who die at sea. A storm brings them together, but under clear skies they must part. When one of the Foxes goes missing, Renee joins to help. It’s meant to be a temporary escape, but Allison might be a reason to stay.⁂An AU of Kirsty Logan'sThe Gracekeepers.
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 25
Collections: AFTG Big Bang 2020





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adverbialstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adverbialstarlight/gifts).



> First of all massive thank you to [Ly](https://adverbialstarlight.tumblr.com/) for choosing this piece and making the most incredible art for it. It's been a joy to see my scenes come to life, and y'all can see their first piece in the next chapter. Their second piece will be in chapter five so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> I wanted to make a few thank yous to the AFTG Big Bang mods, to my editor, [Nat](https://sirfatcat-mccatterson.tumblr.com/), and to all my sensitivity readers. You've been blessings and I'm incredibly grateful.
> 
> Once again I've changed the formatting for this fic but if you prefer AO3's default of san-serif type and left-aligned text just click "Hide Creator's Style" at the top of the page. Everything will still make sense, it's just not nearly as pretty.
> 
> And as always: if anyone has any thoughts or comments about this or anything else I'm v open to feedback so you can drop a comment here or message me on [tumblr](https://wishbonetea.tumblr.com)!

**THE GRACEKEEPERS**

 _One ship drives east and another drives west  
With the selfsame winds that blow.  
‘Tis the set of the sails  
And not the gales  
Which tells us the way to go.  
Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,  
As we voyage along through the life:  
Tis the set of a soul  
That decides its goal,  
And not the calm or the strife._

— Ella Wheeler Wilcox, _The Winds Of Fate_

* * *

* * *

**blackshore** \ ˈblak-ˌshȯr \ part of the seashore, named after the seaweed brought up by the high tide

 **C** ircus boats were always the easiest to spot, with their colourful silken sails, but this circus boat in particular was an exception. The _Circus Evermore_ was a black hole against the grey sky, with black silk sails and red underlining. In the archipelagos throughout the world, life was a constant stream of ships pulled ashore. For the most part circus folk had to fight for their place on an island’s dock. The precious spaces on island beaches would be occupied by messenger boats and medics by the time dawn came around again. In a world that is almost entirely sea, placing your feet on land was a privilege that must be earned.

The _Circus Evermore_ seemed to have earned it tenfold. At least, that was what fifteen year old Natalie Shields had assumed, since they never had to fight for their place on the dock. She had known fighting for her life, more so than most people on the islands, and the _Circus Evermore_ was a testimony to triumph. She wanted to be a part of that, to feel victory sing in her bones.

She wanted to never be afraid again.

As it was, Natalie found her place on the blackshore like a king on their dais. She alone watched the circus crew spill ashore: a dark haired man with an ornate cane trailed by paired folk in matching black and red uniforms. To a chorus of rhythmic shouts— _hoist! hoist! hoist!—_ the crew pulled ropes in unison, not one breaking formation. Natalie’s feet were restless on the metal slats of the dock. Her fingers twitched at her sides, still itchy from their new ink.

Natalie watched the circus unfold. Before each piece was assembled, she could imagine it’s role. The boat’s dark sails would become the dark ceiling of the big top. The wide, flat deck of the _Evermore_ would become the circus’ stage. She felt connected to it, her thoughts anchored to the boat’s reality. She inched further and further off the dock and onto the blackshore with each billowing sail and tightening rope. A dark energy cocooned the ship and she felt it match her own. Their hearts beat in tandem.

Natalie had a plan as beautiful and dangerous as each of the circus acts before her. She knew that the Bloodsharks would cover up the murder of one of their senior officers as they covered up everything else, but she didn’t care if they punished her for it. It would be worth it. Whatever they tried to do to her after, she would be smiling through it all. She had cemented her place on the island, so a life on a boat like the _Evermore_ was a distant dream. She would never know the waters of the world, only the stone of the land and the blood of the people on it.

Natalie stayed on the blackshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. She went back to her mother’s house only to change her clothes. Her secondhand trousers and long-sleeved shirt was more comfortable, but she didn’t want to risk the chance of being turned away at the door. It would all be worth it for the circus.

**dampling** \ ˈdamp-liŋ \ a person born at sea

 **T** hat night, Natalie huddled under the black canopy, hands clasped between her knees in the heavy material of her skirt, mouth open as she gazed up. Not all the landlockers on her island found the circus a glad sight, but the _Circus Evermore_ was not one to ignore. There were enough people on the island to crowd out the big top twice over, but they all still tried to cram inside. Natalie didn’t care whether they all got a seat or not; she was excited enough for every single landlocker in the whole archipelago.

“We shouldn’t let damplings come here,” Natalie’s mother muttered from the seat beside her, because her status as a landlocker apparently cancelled out the fact that she didn’t care when her latest nameless boyfriend liked to smack Natalie around. It didn’t matter what a landlocker did, they would always be better than a dampling.

Natalie wanted to scoff at her mother’s hypocrisy. She didn’t, though, because Natalie hadn’t spoken a word to her mother in months. She stayed in the house for the free food and the free bed, but she spent every waking moment with the Bloodsharks, where she belonged.

“Some islands don’t even let damplings come above the blackshore,” the nameless boyfriend said, slurping loudly at his drink. Natalie didn’t bother to grimace: she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “If they want to perform, they can do it in the daytime with waves lapping at their ankles like they’re meant to. Those people belong in the water. They’re dirtying the land.”

 _And you’re dirtying the genetic pool, yet here we are,_ Natalie thought of saying, but she didn’t.

Besides, Natalie knew that would never work, even if the landlockers agreed to it. The circuses wouldn’t look as good in the bland, bright day: their colours would fade against the clouds, spitty rain would threaten the fire-breathers, and the acrobats’ sodden feet would make them shiver so much that they missed their catches. What would be the point of an imperfect circus?

Perhaps that was why the _Circus Evermore_ performed under their big top, dry and warm no matter the weather. Perhaps that was why their presence was known no matter the time of day; black would never look bland in the daytime. No matter what happened, the _Circus Evermore_ would always be noticed and victorious and _perfect._

The man with the cane strode onstage, and this time he was wearing a tall black hat and a delicate paper shirt with even more delicate paper ruffles. The crowd gasped at the sight of it. Natalie didn’t think she had ever seen a shirt that grand, in a material so finite, and her hands twitched to snatch it off him and hoard it for herself. She would have done, perhaps, if the man were alone and there wasn’t an entire island full of landlockers watching. She remained in her seat and watched.

At the ringmaster’s nod, the circus burst to life under the dramatic lighting and colour scheme. Natalie’s eyes were opened wide to worlds unknown, worlds of magic and victory and freedom. Performances overlapped as each act was introduced onstage, and the landlockers rushed to fill the ringmaster’s hat with lumps of gold and coal and quartz and copper. By the time the final act was introduced, the ringmaster had to pass his treasure-filled hat to a stage assistant, who then dragged it offstage.

Onto the stage stepped two boys: both around twelve years old, in identical black costumes adorned with red gemstones that twinkled in the bright lights. They were of similar height, with matching black hair, and only their differing skintone discerned one from the other at this distance.

Offstage, a small orchestra started to play. The sound of violins swooped around the big top. The pair began to walk to twin ladders at either side of the stage, light footed and graceful. They began to climb at the same speed, step by step, and Natalie couldn’t decide which one to watch. They reached the platform at the top of the ladder in unison, and leaped onto their bars in the same second, performing identical swings and death-mocking twists. The song eased into another rhythm, and the lights turned blood red the moment one acrobat leapt from his bar and swung through the air. The crowd gasped, braced themselves in their seats, but the second acrobat’s momentum put him in the path of the first, and they clasped each others’ wrists, swinging once, twice, until the first acrobat leapt back onto their platform with a flourish. The crowd clapped with glee, and even Natalie’s mother seemed charmed. Natalie herself wasn’t _charmed,_ exactly. She had felt her heart leap out of her chest when she saw the acrobat fly through the air without aid, and that adrenaline rush in the moment between flying and falling and being caught was one she had been searching for her entire life.

After the first acrobat had landed and swung back onto his bar, it was the second acrobat’s turn to fly. Natalie watched as he swung into the air with that same, identical momentum, launching into the mirrored position of his partner, but for some unknowable reason, the first acrobat did not catch him. The second had tried, but his hands did not clasp onto identical wrists. He had fallen to the deck of the Evermore with a painful _thud,_ screaming and crying and cradling his left hand to his chest. Natalie didn’t see how the other boy climbed down, but he did, and he ran to his partner’s side. She heard the wailing of the crowd surrounding her, echoes of _a tragedy,_ and _the other boy is too shocked to even be surprised._

Natalie knew better. She saw the darkness surrounding this boy like she saw it surrounding the Bloodsharks. This was not shock. This was vengeance, though vengeance for what, she did not know.

Natalie had been too busy staring at this angry, hate-fueled boy and his screaming partner to notice a third boy, younger and smaller than the other two, run onto the stage. Natalie only noticed him when the crowd around her started to gasp and scream, for the boy did not run alone.

Alongside him ran a small red fox, and when the pair reached the others, the boy stopped. The fox did not. It leapt at the boy who did not fall, and sunk its teeth into the boy’s arm.

The air around Natalie was engulfed in screams, cries, and the chaos of running feet. She felt herself being pushed by the crowds as they scrambled for the exits. She tried to hold her ground, to remind these people that _she_ was a Bloodshark, that _she_ was more dangerous than a fox, but it wasn’t true. Natalie had earned her knives, but she was not born with claws.

She pushed people back as she climbed up onto the benches to peer over the crowds. Over the heads of panicked people, she saw that only the stage had emptied faster than the crowds. All three of the boys had vanished, along with the fox.


	2. one

**behindcurtains** \ bi-ˈhīnd-ˈkər-tənz \ of, relating to, or occurring in the area behind the stage curtains

 **A** bove the deck of the _Foxhole Circus,_ Allison waited for her cue. She could see the entire stage below where her fellow circus folk were performing the maypole. Everything was wrapped in ribbons: the pole, their hair, their bodies. The ribbons were dyed bright with ground up shells and seaweed, streaking colour onto their bare skin.

Her cue wouldn’t come for a while yet. This high up, the air was infuriatingly cold despite her elaborate costume: apparently Nicky still couldn’t work with climate parameters, but at least she looked good. Unfortunately, no costume could hide the strengthening smell of sweat and spoil. Allison wrinkled her nose. She hated the smell of the land. Despite growing up on it, on an island far wealthier than this, she didn’t trust its steadiness, its refusal to move or change in the honest way of the sea. The landlockers hadn’t given the circus much room on their island, as if their squelchy sand and foul-smelling dirt were too _precious_ for filthy damplings.

A breeze nipped at Allison’s braided hair from some stray gap in the curtains of the big top, but she didn’t let herself try to locate the gap and look out to sea. On most days, Allison would sit up in the crow’s nest of the ship and watch out over the waves. There was something calming about the enormity of the sea, and something challenging in Allison’s decision to sail across the entirety of it.

But tonight her challenge wasn’t to sail the ocean that dominated the earth; it was to perfect her already perfected routine. The show tonight would be uncomplicated: Allison would suspend, swing, and spiral across the stage, weaving ribbons as she went. Simple. Or as simple as anything can be in a circus.

She looked down onto the wooden deck of the _Foxhole._ Dan had acted as ringmaster ever since Wymack stepped down last year, preferring to captain the ship between shows. She’d taken to it like a fish to water, rolling her top hat across her arms and shoulders and holding it out to catch the thrown copper and coal. Allison watched as something else was thrown toward Dan, and in her shock at seeing such a payment, Dan almost missed it.

A banana.

A perfect yellow. It dropped into the base of Dan’s hat and Dan gave a short bow to the crowd in the direction it had been thrown before turning back to the ring to continue narrating the show. Allison focused. Her cue would be next.

BEHOLD THE BEAUTY OF THE RIBBONS, called Dan’s voice around the big top. Allison adjusted her grip on the cantaloupe silk suspended from the topsail yard, her palms and feet still slightly sticky from rosin. AS RED AS A ROSE, AS GREEN AS THE GRASS—at this Dan swept her arms wide as if glorying the joys of spring—AND WITH THIS DANCE WE GIVE THANKS TO THE GODS OF THE LAND FOR BRINGING LIFE TO THE WORLD. Once her foot was tied in, Allison separated the silks, leaning forward and extending her right knee into a jazz passe. The breeze caught at the ribbons in her hair as she leaned back into a walk-over, vivid colours amongst the bleached white braids like a snapshot of the moment the coral reefs flooded and died. BUT WAIT, DO NOT LEAVE YOUR SEATS, FOR WE WILL SOON ENTER YOUR RANKS. FOR NOW YOU CAN BUY YOUR OWN RIBBON AND LEARN THE MYSTIC ART OF THE MAYPOLE. That was Nicky’s cue, decked out in all the ribbons and colours they could spare. He would weave amongst the audience, a focal point of life and radiance against the bland colours of the landlockers.

This is what Allison left the land for. What could earthen browns and plain creams and dry greens have on the vivid sapphire and cobalt and azure of the sea? How could she have been content with seeing the exact same sky and the exact same ground every single day for the rest of her life? She would hardly be able to breathe for all the yawning. The _Foxhole_ might be a little dented, but it was still a boat. It could get you from one end of the world to the other. Land was useless; it couldn’t take you anywhere at all.

She swung her upper body through the silks, and once she was braced upside down she paused there for a few moments. She ignored the awe of the crowd with the ease of practice. She was above them. They thought she climbed and swung so high for _them,_ but it wasn’t true. She challenged herself and herself alone.

She was Allison Reynolds, and she didn’t need _them_ for validation.

She flipped upright once more, slow enough that the blood didn’t rush from her head too fast, and pushed her free foot against one of the silks, sliding up as her torso slid down into a half-moon. She controlled the tides of the crowds, the awe. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her costume and pulled out a handful of glitter. The overflow cascaded down to the deck like a meteor shower. She held the Perseids in her left palm and the Leonids in her right, and she released both clouds as she suspended in the air, under the warm glow of the _Foxhole’_ s sails.

She let her thoughts fade out and focused her attention on her movements. It had been a long time since she fell—though she bore the scars of her past mistakes—but there was no safety net and Allison would have preferred not to risk breaking a bone. Her aerial show was one of the favourites among all islands, and the Foxes’ earnings would definitely suffer if they had to cut it from upcoming shows while she recovered.

Her mind was still clear when her feet touched down on the deck. She didn’t hear the crowd’s applause when she and the others paraded offstage. The _Foxhole’_ s crew numbered twelve, including Allison, and their faces were as familiar to her as her own. Even in the gloom she recognised the broad shoulders of Matt, their strongman and sword swallower. His arms curled protectively around Dan’s first hat, and Allison let herself daydream of a feast that evening.

As they walked behindcurtains, she trailed her fingertips over the salt-roughened sails that made up the curtains and overhead of the big top. Some circuses left their ships in the water and performed up on the dock, but the Foxes were damplings by nature. Only Allison, Matt, and Nicky had grown up as landlockers, the rest would never find the balance or concentration to perform on land.

Seth, the fire-breather who had timed his breaths between each of Allison’s spirals around the maypole, was already pulling apart his costume. He scrubbed off the paint from his shaved head and left a trail of ribbons behind him. Nicky would later try to salvage the latter. They didn’t have the resources to be wasteful.

Allison spotted Neil and Andrew waiting in behindcurtains, tucked up in their own conversation like they always were. There was no point in trying to eavesdrop, both of them were far too attuned to their surroundings not to notice her. It didn’t matter: Neil would be called out next.

Dan was still onstage, her second hat swapped out and slowly starting to fill with the paltry resources the landlockers would spare. Her voice carried across the deck to the stands, introducing THE WONDROUS FOX-BOY, FEARLESS AND FIERCE. Allison watched Neil murmur something to Andrew, who only nodded in return, and then Neil stood up. His fox jumped onto his shoulders and then back down to the wooden slats to trot behind Neil.

Neil’s fox always was always shackled when she went onstage, though the fine gold chains were decorative, meant only for the eyes of the crowd. Spectacle is grounded in the illusion of control. The crowds ask and ask and ask for safety, for barriers, but what they really desire is the trick gone wrong: the fall from a trapeze, the uncovering of bone.

It was why almost all of the islands in the archipelagos of the world knew of Kevin Day. Once a trapeze artist for the _Circus Evermore,_ now a trainer for the _Foxhole Circus,_ Kevin had fallen from the trapeze when he was thirteen years old and broke his hand. Allison, along with the rest of the Foxes, knew that his partner, Riko Moriyama, was entirely to blame. She hadn’t been there; eight years ago she had still been living on her island, if ‘living on her island’ included the failed attempts to run away.

Rumours of Kevin’s ‘accident’ followed them wherever they sailed, but it wasn’t just the rumours.

It was clear as shallow waters that the _Circus Evermore_ had altered their performing routes, arriving at the same islands the _Foxhole Circus_ did with far too few hours between. Usually, islands didn’t get consecutive performances a month, let alone on the same day, and all the Foxes could hope for was that they arrived first and collected whatever payment the landlockers were willing to offer.

Earlier that night, when the _Foxhole_ had docked onto South-West 12, Allison and Dan had peeked out from under the canvas top of their coracle to spy on the landlockers. Janie didn’t bother, focusing on her stretches, but Dan had always been curious by the landlockers and Allison liked to spy on the life she left behind. Despite their hard-won finery, they always looked haggard and hunched, as if the crust of soil they had allowed the circus was poisoning them. To them, damplings were an infestation, something to cut out and ward off. It didn’t matter that damplings outnumbered landlockers ten-to-one. Landlockers had land, and land meant food, and food meant power. No one was allowed to forget that, not even Allison, who had given it all up as soon as the opportunity arose.

From the stage Dan’s voice grew louder and more dramatic, AND HERE TO TRICK THE CUNNING BEAST WITH TEETH SHARPER THAN RAZOR-SHELLS, but it was quickly drowned out by the familiar gasp when Neil and his fox stepped out from behind the curtain. There were many circus boats—all of them less decrepit than the _Foxhole_ —but none of the others had a fox-boy. In a world with so little land, mammals were rare outside the landlocker farms.

Allison didn’t watch his performance. She’d seen it plenty of times before, and it wasn’t her favourite. Neil always looked happier when he was performing his unlikely friendship act rather than one of deceit and death. Instead, she led the way further behindcurtains, where the rest of the _Foxhole’_ s crew waited.

Since Dan was onstage, and Wymack and Abby in the wings awaiting disaster, the rest of the circus folk were unruled and unruly for those precious, unsupervised moments.

Janie was sat on the floor, stretching as a contortionist must do after a performance, but looked relieved when Allison, Seth, and Matt made their appearance. Allison didn’t blame her: Aaron was sitting by himself playing a one-man card game. The few moments he wasn’t locked in his coracle writing love letters to his landlocker girlfriend, he was in the company of his family and his family alone. Since Andrew was keeping an eye on his charges, and Nicky in the stands entertaining their audience of the evening, Aaron was left unmoored. Though, Allison supposed, he did push his cards aside and reshuffled when Matt pulled out the chair opposite him. Perhaps it was just Janie.

Allison sat on the table running down the middle of the cabin’s interior. There were benches lining each side, but they made perfectly adequate footrests and her position on the table allowed her to look down upon the rest of her crew. Janie stood up from her place on the floor and dropped into a seat at the table. Allison snapped her fingers in front of her face in demand for her to turn around, which she did, and then started unbraiding her hair to take the ribbons out. Janie’s braids were different from Allison’s, considering that Janie was white and her hair was straight, so Allison could slip out the coloured ribbons with ease.

Seth took a seat beside Janie but just sat in silence and gathered the ribbons Allison dropped onto a table, looping them around his fingers and knuckles and making a fist. He didn’t say anything. Seth only tended to allow himself to be quiet when he was sat with Allison and Janie: Allison, from years of shared company (though they hadn’t shared a bed in two), and Janie, because Janie liked the quiet.

Allison had never managed to pry the entire story from either of them, but she knew that early into Janie’s contract with the _Foxhole Circus,_ Seth, roaring drunk, had stumbled around the deck of the _Foxhole_ with the intention of throwing himself overboard and drowning his demons. In his state of inebriation, he hadn’t considered that it had been Janie’s turn in the crow’s nest. She’d scaled down the main mast and grabbed onto his shirt before he managed to swing one leg over the side of the ship. Since Seth was over six feet tall, and Janie barely over five, Janie had had to knock Seth out with a swing of her spyglass. His hangover had been unbearable and yet Allison had been the one to deal with it. She didn’t feel any guilt in his attempt—they were on the ‘off’ part of their relationship at the time, but they’d broken up several times before that night—and wouldn’t take responsibility for Seth’s own choices. But she knew how to handle him, for the most part, so she’d handed him back his broken pieces and let him pull himself back together.

They hadn’t gotten back together since then, and Allison doubted that they ever would. Seth needed something to anchor himself on, something that lasted longer than Allison’s fluctuating interest, and Allison wouldn’t let herself fall into a blue hole of dependency.

Seth and Janie weren’t sleeping together—she trusted that enough to bet a whole month’s alcohol rations on it—but she knew they took comfort in each other’s company. Since they weren’t sleeping together, Allison also knew that Seth wouldn’t try to rationalise their friendship: Janie had seen the worst side of him, and gained nothing from his company other than companionship. It was enough.

It took a long time to take out the ribbons, and by the time she was finished combing Janie’s hair she knew she couldn’t muster up the energy to do anything about her own. Allison’s braids were currently white, except for the scattering of coloured bands wrapped around them. She hadn’t asked Nicky how he’d made the yarn dye, only asked him to test it on everything and anything before touching her braids.

With the last ribbon now wrapped around Seth’s fist, Allison grew impatient and bored. The crew wouldn’t eat until the show was over, since they would have to eat what the island had allowed them. They hadn’t been skin-diving in over a week, so they didn’t have the small supply of coral or mother-of-pearl found in the shallow waters to trade for better food, and landlockers wouldn’t even _consider_ trading their fruits for fish. Landlockers considered themselves above dampling food, and would probably rather starve than accept a bite of seaweed.

She drummed her fingers against the table in quick counts of four, each fingertip hitting the wood with a light _thud._

“I hope there’s eggs in the morning,” Janie said.

Seth grunted. “Doubt it.”

Allison doubted it too. They’d done well enough to earn one hot meal each, but it was rare for an island to spare much more. The poorer islands, because they didn’t have more to offer, and the wealthier, because they chose not to. No matter how well the Foxes performed, how much they risked their lives with their acts, their bowls were never quite full enough for their stomachs. At least it took the edge off the familiar gnaw of hunger.

The others came stomping through a little while later. Dan had her second hat in her hand, considerably lighter than her first. She dropped it down on the table beside the other, and the rest of the crew crowded around to see what they’d earned.

Dan pulled out the banana first, and the rest of their earnings were soon forgotten. They stared, hypnotised, as Dan twirled it in her hands. Seth’s hands had curled once again into fists, though it was unlikely in readying to hit something as it was readying to catch the banana before it fell and bruised.

Allison had thought the banana perfectly yellow from when she saw it onstage, but upon closer inspection she could see the speckles. Since the entire crew was together at that moment, Dan didn’t have reason to wait: she held out a hand palm up, and Andrew pulled out a silver knife from one of his armbands and handed it over in silence. Even Andrew would disarm himself a knife—though Allison wasn’t stupid enough to think that this was the _only_ knife Andrew kept on his person—in the face of such a prize.

Dan ran the edge of the blade through the skin, exposing the flesh tenderly. The crew took a shared intake of breath as its scent as it exploded in the air: softly sweet, like how a clean pillow feels after a long day scrubbing at the deck. Allison knew how much bananas cost, and it was certainly weeks worth of the circus crew’s dinners. She inhaled as deeply as she could, savouring it. The banana would be sliced into twelve pieces. One chunk for each member of the _Foxhole Circus._ It wouldn’t nearly be enough to satisfy any of them, but they were Foxes; they would take what they could from the land that dealt them their unlucky cards.

**landlocker** \ ˈland-lä-kər \ a person born on land

 **A** llison was awoken with a prod to the cheek. She batted it away, but it only prodded again.

“You’re the worst,” she muttered into her pillow.

Dan wasn’t fazed. “Wake up,” she said, pointlessly, considering that Allison was already awake. “Crew meeting in five.”

Allison struggled in the claws of sleep and cosiness, but eventually she pushed off her covers. It didn’t feel like a victory. She squinted her eyes open, and saw that Dan had lit one of the seal-fat lamps. The Foxes tended to ignore the old regulations about fire on boats—the need to see was more important than superstition—but they still exercised precaution. There were no windows in the metal-shelled coracles, and as long as the flames didn’t reach as high as the canvas, they were safe, because almost everything in the coracles was made of metal or bone.

Dan was waking Janie, who was significantly more of a morning person. Allison ignored Janie contentedly getting dressed as she reached over to find the old knitted sweater on the end of her bunk, the colour of sea foam and worn to softness. She pulled it on over her night shirt and reached for the loose trousers at the end of her bunk. Dan smothered the flame of the lamp, leaving them in temporary darkness, and unclipped the canvas cover of their coracle. Behind her, the sky was dark blue and threaded with pink. The sun wasn’t up yet, and Allison knew it would be a while until breakfast. She was soothed by the slow breath of waves and the scrape of coracles shifting—the lullaby of the sleeping circus—but not enough to make up for the fact that Dan had woken her up at this ridiculous hour for no apparent reason.

She debated going back to bed.

She knew there would be a reason—Dan valued her sleep as much as Allison did—but Allison still glared at her for every second spent uncertain that whatever Dan wanted to do would be worth it.

“Come on,” Dan said, ushering both Allison and Janie outside. “We don’t have much time.” Dan’s head disappeared from the lip of the coracle. In the gap left, Allison saw that the streaks of pink in the sky were burning to red.

Allison unwrapped her headscarf and pulled her braids up, tying them into a knot atop her head with twine. Janie was rummaging around trying to find her bell—all damplings had to wear a tiny brass bell on their clothes when on land, in case they were mistaken for landlockers—but she found it underneath Dan’s bed. Allison grabbed hers from the nightstand and took a moment to attach it to the laces of her soft leather shoes, and followed Janie outside.

While the _Foxhole_ had been pulled ashore, the brightly painted—which meant brightly painted _orange_ —coracles where the crew lived didn’t need to touch land. They only had to tighten the chains between them and the convoy became one long, snaking raft.

Allison spotted Dan crouched on the canvas top of Matt and Seth’s coracle, giving them an equally cheerful wakeup call. Matt’s head soon appeared from under the canvas and pulled Dan in for a quick kiss.

“Hey,” Allison called. “Why didn’t I get a kiss?”

Dan laughed as she stood up to move to the next coracle. “Ask Seth.”

Allison and Seth both flipped her off. She made her way to the docks, using the salt-crusted chains as a handhold as she jumped between the coracles. The swaying chains and bobbing decks felt steadier to her than walking on ground, but the constant rise and fall of the tide had nothing on the surety of gravity and momentum in the air during her performances.

With the sunrise steadily bringing more light, Allison couldn’t ignore the peeling paint and rusted metal of their coracles. In places, the orange had flaked off entirely, leaving patches of dull grey. Saltwater and paint did _not_ mix well.

They waited on the metal slats of the dock while the rest of the crew climbed out of their coracles and made their way over. Some were more eager to be on land than the others, as not every Fox dreamed of a life on the sea. They followed the gangway up from the port, shoes soft on the metal slats. Allison looked across the blackshore to the tin-sided towers that looked more ramshackle than ever, the waves slapping at their bases. Allison couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to live there. The Foxes called the landlockers ‘clams’ for their brainless need to cling to the shore. Allison could understand those who lived on the wealthier islands in their lives of luxury, but was the desire to be near land so overwhelming that people would accept these shoddy homes, hoping that over the years they could creep gradually closer to the centre of the island? Soil was dirty, and it smelled; but even with memories of the large, colourful house she grew up in with its tall iron gates and wide veranda, Allison wanted nothing more than to be away from it.

They passed the tower blocks to the reclaimed land where the houses became lower and larger. These houses were not impossible to buy—reclaimed land was cheaper, not worshipped like the real earth. As they walked, Allison kept one ear to the conversations around her, listening for anything she could claim on her bets, while the other listened out for early-rising landlockers. If spotted, she could either make excuses or run. From experience—experience driven by being a friend of Neil—Allison knew it was better to run.

Neil’s attention now seemed to be wandering. He kept glancing back at the port, back to the string of bobbing coracles. Allison knew it was because he didn’t like to be parted from his fox for too long, but his distraction affected his stride, losing the rhythm of his steps and making his toes drag. If he didn’t keep his eyes down, the unsteady, too-steady path would trip him. He didn’t trip though. Despite the weaving of roots and vines along the surface of the path, Neil’s feet seemed to miss every one.

Luckily, if anything to do with Andrew Minyard could be called _lucky,_ Andrew reached out and grasped Neil by the back of his neck, pushing his head down to where it needed to be. Neil’s stride returned back to normal, though he didn’t look down at the ground for much longer, either. He just stared at Andrew, like an unmoored ship guided by a beacon of light during a storm. Allison couldn’t understand it, but she didn’t have a week’s alcohol rations on _understanding_ it, so she didn’t pay it much mind. If Neil was somehow attracted to the monster, there was nothing she could do to change that.

Eventually their steps grew heavier as the land grew more solid under their feet. There were no more tower blocks this far inland; the houses here were not much taller than she was. Rich people wanted to live as low to the old ground as possible; Allison’s parents owned an expansive bungalow, stretching across their plot of land as if they were to shelter a whole community, rather than just themselves and their staff.

Past the houses, closer still to the island’s center, lay farmland. Dan glanced over her shoulder as they climbed the stile one-by-one; it wasn’t technically illegal for damplings to walk through the farmland, but if a farmer ‘accidentally’ shot them the punishment would be light. Allison put her sleeve over her mouth and breathed in the salt and the sea between the soft weave of her sweater. The air reeked of mud and plants and animal shit, all of it unfamiliar.

Dan was the last to climb over and she paused on top of the stile. She put her hands on her hips in her most captainly pose, though thankfully she left the theatrical voice on the deck of the _Foxhole._

“Listen up! Stick to the paths and keep quiet. The last thing we need is a prison boat rescue mission.” She jumped down from the stile, landing with a _thud_ and leading the way down the path.

No one talked as they walked through the farmland, though Allison didn’t know whether that was out of precaution or having run out of things to say. Spending every waking second with the same group of people grew tiring after a while, even for the Foxes.

At the edge of the trees, they paused, silencing the tinny jingle of bells from the Foxes’ clothing. Allison hadn’t been inside a copse for a very long time, and she could guess from the look on the others’ faces that they’d _never_ been inside one. The woods were old—some of the trees were prehistoric, people said—and they’d all heard about the awful things that landlockers did in there.

The stories weren’t exactly true, but lies found their foundations somewhere.

Allison bent and peered into the copse. The ground was clear, but the tree trunks twisted together, creating interlocking black shapes too dense for them to see far. Scraps of coloured fabric were tied around some of the branches, a poor mimicry of the wonders of aerial silks. There were little piles of things at the base of several trees: shiny objects, scraps of paper, soft-looking moss.

It was a paltry display of offerings compared to what Allison had seen before, but she didn’t particularly care. To her, the clams’ offerings to the gods of the land were simply items left for the taking.

Allison edged her body in sideways, but it was too overgrown. She reached up and took hold of a thin branch, ready to snap it off and make room to slide through.

“Allison! No!” Nicky came rushing over around the edge of the trees, arms outstretched as if to catch her. “You can’t!”

On instinct, Allison slapped his hands away from her. “There’s no one around to see.”

Nicky cradled his hand to his chest. “That doesn’t matter. Don’t you know that the trees are sacred here?” He elbowed past her, somehow bracing himself enough not to fall into the trees himself when she shoved him back, and examined the branch she’d touched as if she’d left dirty fingerprints on it.

Allison scoffed. “Oh come on, you don’t even believe in—” She stopped at the look on Nicky’s face.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe in,” Nicky said. “If you go in there and steal their offerings, you’re just as bad as what they make us out to be.”

Allison bit back a scowl and instead wore a haughty expression. “They have no idea what I am.” She turned back to the copse, but the scraps of fabric and carved objects weren’t much of a haul. They weren’t worth the energy of climbing in and taking them.

So Allison huffed and strode on towards where Dan was leading the rest of the Foxes toward the other side of the copse, where the farmland of potato, maize, and quinoa crops morphed into the abundant fruit trees. She pretended not to listen as Nicky retold the same plan that he told the Foxes most nights.

“Erik and I are going to be married when we get to North-East 5. Right by the World Tree. It’s going to be _so_ romantic. It’s not usually allowed for landlockers who aren’t—well, who don’t currently live on land. But Erik’s bought special permission for us, isn’t that wonderful?”

They had another season of Nicky’s chattering about his upcoming wedding. It would take six months to get to North-East 5, give or take a week. Allison didn’t know how much longer she could tolerate his indecision to invite his parents or not. Nicky clearly deserved better than to have his family ruin his wedding day, but she could understand his reluctance to finally carve his parents from his life forever.

When they finally climbed over the last stile to the island’s huge banana plantation, the morning light had turned buttery. Allison had to raise a hand to shield her eyes, but still she could make out bucketloads of fruit. The Foxes hadn’t brought buckets with them, and the islanders would be quick to blame them if so much went missing overnight. But their clothes had pockets and a small amount spread equally throughout the trees could easily be blamed on the birds.

Absentmindedly filling her pockets—and her stomach, as she was nothing if not an opportunist—with bananas, Allison noted when Neil and Andrew disappeared out of the orchard to do whatever they did when no one could see them. The _Foxhole_ rarely offered anyone privacy, and the couples within the crew tended to make the most of their time on land. Allison and Dan shared a look when Dan looked over from one of the other trees, and they both rolled their eyes.

Eventually Neil and Andrew returned and they all made their way back to the copse. Nicky shot Allison a glare when she feigned an attempt to climb in again, and strode on ahead to fall into step beside Aaron. The Foxes started to meander back to the shore, but all their heads snapped up at the sound of a door slamming shut. A farmhouse.

“Walk back quickly,” Dan instructed, calm but firm. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t step a toe off the path. If you drop something, pick it up. Got it? Go.”

Andrew grabbed Aaron and Nicky’s shirts and pushed them forward to the path they had come, shoving Kevin shortly after them and grabbing Neil’s hand to follow. Allison and the others walked close behind them, with Matt and Dan, the most personable of the Foxes, taking up the rear in case they were caught.

They walked along the path with their heads down and over the stile in single file. Allison’s pulse quickened but she didn’t let it show. She forced her feet to walk steady steps with her head held high. She was above it all and every onlooker would know it. Her heart still hammered in her chest as she spotted the blackshore and passed the tin-sided towers, each thump went hand-in-hand with the shush of their shoes on the gangplank. At the sight of the _Foxhole_ and its coracles chained in their row, Allison felt herself starting to grin from excitement, at the close call. The Foxes walked the chains and ducked under their canvases without a word. It wasn’t until she hid her bounty under her bunk and out of sight that she felt her heart slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ly's piece can be found on tumblr [here](https://adverbialstarlight.tumblr.com/post/628082538309648384/allison-climbed-her-silks-they-had-been-dyed) so make sure to give it a reblog and show them some love!


	3. two

**grace** \ ˈgrās \ a small bird used in the mourning service of those who die at sea

 **S** ome said that weather prediction was only possible for sea witches. Others said that one could predict the weather if one only looked for the right signs. Renee supposed that they were both true.

Renee could always predict the weather by listening to the graces. Under clear skies they stayed silent in their cages, but silence and stillness wasn’t possible for a grace when a storm was brewing. They’d chirp and coo and shudder their wings so much that Renee couldn’t help but feel their disquiet.

The graces were shifting uneasily in their cages that morning. Renee sat on the front porch of her lighthouse, perched at the edge cross-legged with her hands in her lap. The metal slats beneath her were warm under her skin, but she didn’t want to put her feet in the water. From a distance, the porch looked like it was made of wood. It wasn’t. Real wood was far too precious for such a thing, but the salvaged metal had been etched and shaped to mimic it, and over the years it had rusted so much that it almost had the right colour too.

She watched the boats pass by in the distance, tiny and ghostlike. The sea in the doldrums was busy with fish, but Renee wasn’t allowed to catch them. Surrounded by a fish-rich sea, she had enough food and water to last her a lifetime, but she could have none of it.

Eventually the sun settled high in the sky and Renee went inside to prepare for the Resting that afternoon. Her lighthouse opened to the Resting room, a barrier between the sea and her home. The sunlight spilled in from the open door and the three windows, and Renee’s eyes went to the grace huddled in the corner of its cage. Its head was tucked under its wing, and its speckled feathers seemed dull against the polished metal bars.

“I know the feeling,” Renee told the grace, and she scattered a few sunflower seeds into the cage. She wasn’t supposed to feed the graces, but she believed that some people deserved a longer remembrance. She’d already met some of the crew who were coming for the Resting, and her stomach clenched to think of the quickness in their smiles, their relief when they saw that the grace was so small. She wished she’d chosen a bigger grace for the dead man, but it was too late. All she could do now was sneak it food to make it live longer. Real grief, and Renee didn’t feed the grace. Those people didn’t need the grace’s death to tell them when mourning was over. Ships rarely came back to check anyway; the birds were bred to be tiny and they could not live long, caged without food or fresh water. Renee didn’t feel bad about feeding the graces. She had vowed to atone for her past but was it really a crime to protect an innocent life?

Her white dress hung in the corner of the Resting room, and when she checked to see if it was dry she was unsurprised to find the fabric hardened with salt. Her filter wasn’t working and she wasn’t going to waste drinking water on laundry. She pulled it on over her head and stretched her shoulders to loosen the fabric as best she could, and then checked that her gloves covered her hands completely. They were made of fine leather, and had been sewn by Stephanie, the gracekeeper who had taken her under her wing when she had first arrived at the doldrums. Stephanie had given sixteen year old Natalie a new name, a new life, and new gloves. The stitching was coming undone again, and Renee made a mental note to herself to fix them up that evening.

She ran her comb through her short, dark hair, and added a spray of white-flowers behind her ear. The flowers were fake, but no one would expect them to be real. They did expect her, however, to present more feminine. Renee no longer wore the secondhand trousers and shirts from her home island, but on the days she didn’t expect company she wore the dark grey trousers and loose shirt Jean had gifted to her.

Gracekeepers were provided with three sets of clothes to alternate between, and though they had to wear the white ones for Resting services, they weren’t required to wear the others. Jean had happily traded one of Renee’s dresses for his trousers and shirt, though Renee had only seen him wear the dress once. It suited him, and he said he liked how comfortable it was. Renee was glad that it served him more purpose than it did unused at the bottom of her chest.

For now, Renee folded her shirt and trousers and took them up to her bedroom on the second floor of her lighthouse, placing them in her chest of clothes.

She descended to the kitchen on the floor below, and made up a lunch of rye bread and honey, with a mug of hot tea lit by the stove. Not for the first time, Renee missed the food from her home island. She started to daydream about the syrupiness of hoeddeok and her next bite of honeyed bread was disappointingly bland.

As a gracekeeper Renee was only allowed landlocker food, as delivered by the monthly supply boats and with the Resting parties. Alongside small parcels of food and tradable goods, Resting parties brought with them the body of a loved one recently passed. Graceyards were not a destination, they were a place for passing through. Lined up along the equator, boats and ships passed by and only stopped if they required a gracekeeper’s services.

Renee eyed the sky again, cloudless and pale despite the graces’ restlessness. Even when she strained her eyes as she watched the sky from the gallery, it was hard to imagine that a storm was on its way. Her attention snagged on the approach of a small rowing boat. The sunlight glinted harshly on the tin shell of it, and Renee couldn’t watch it for long without grimacing. She didn’t think the people within the boat would appreciate it, so she averted her gaze and made her way downstairs.

The Resting party was on its way, and Renee was ready to perform.

**resting** \ ˈre-stiŋ \ a ceremony connected with the final disposition of a person who died at sea

 **A** fter the service, before Renee could grasp the oars to row back to the dock, the widow grabbed her wrists. Renee tensed all her muscles; if the widow’s hands moved down from Renee’s wrists, if the gloves were to slip—

She forced herself to relax. The widow, it seemed, only wanted to thank her. She gripped Renee’s exposed wrists as she spoke, and her hands felt damp and swollen, the palms soft with fresh blisters from the boat’s oars.

“He was…” The widow trailed off, her breaths as shallow as haffs and shoals.

“I know,” Renee said, doing her best expression of sympathy. It didn’t feel quite right; seven years in the doldrums and Renee still hadn’t learned her lesson, still hadn’t earned her repentance. As a gracekeeper she was supposed to stay noble and restrained, but she didn’t want to be unkind, not anymore. She took the widow’s hands in her own, feeling the fresh blisters from the oars of the Resting party’s rowing boat. The widow’s wedding ring dug into her finger, making the flesh bulge out at either side. Renee wondered whether it was uncomfortable, or if its pressing weight was worn out of comfort now. A familiar ache. She wondered if that was how grief would feel.

She let go of the widow’s hands, letting them slide down Renee’s fingers and back to her own lap. Renee pretended she was checking the grace’s cage. Its bars were shining with the effort of Renee’s prior dedication, though the effect of Renee’s polishing wouldn’t last long in the saltwater. She supposed it didn’t really matter; the Resting party wouldn’t stay that long, and it would be good enough for the duration of the Resting.

She regretted feeding the grace those sunflower seeds. She knew now that the widow didn’t need it; she would remember her husband no matter when the grace died. That familiar ache of grief was worth far more than scattered feathers to the sea.

Renee pulled on the oars to draw the rowing boat back to the dock. It didn’t matter what she thought; she still had a service to provide. It felt like a performance, something one could see on those circus boats. She remembered the _Circus Evermore,_ with their fierce displays of power and hidden cruelty. At the time, she had revelled in it, felt at home to it. Renee hoped she was better than that now, but then she thought of her Restings. She said the words, performed the actions, and took her payment. How was she any different to one of those Ravens? She only mimed grief, there was nothing true to it. It was hard, pretending to grieve someone she didn’t know beyond stitched-shut faces and vacant eyes forever closed. Sometimes she pretended that the Resting was for Stephanie instead. Two years later, with Stephanie long gone, the memory of grief still helped; her voice would threaten to crack and she’d have to leave long pauses to keep her words steady. The Resting party always seemed more satisfied with her services when she seemed more human.

The crew climbed back into their boat, and Renee bid them farewell in as soothing a voice as she could manage that day. They replied in a chorus of solemnity, but Renee knew that the words were meant for the man they’d lost.

Legally, all dead damplings had to be interred in a graceyard. But Renee knew that didn’t always happen. If someone died in the far north or south, could a crew really be expected to keep the body on board for the months it took to reach the equator? And so it would be tied in canvas and tipped overboard, and the family would decide their own time of mourning, and the dead would end up as a meal for the fishes just as they would be in a graceyard.

As the little boat sailed away, back to the main ship anchored at the edge of the graceyard, Renee felt that one end of a fine thread was tied to the boat’s stern and the other to her ribs. With every beat of the oars she felt something over her heart stretch, and stretch, until it might break. A string like the one between a body and its grace. But all threads broke eventually. It was for the best. For Renee, being alone was safer.

She turned away from the retreating boat and went back into the house, carrying the parcel of supplies with her. For one adult Resting she was paid a mix of food, supplies, and tradable goods: ten eggs, a thick wedge of bread, a tin of dried tea leaves, a thin roll of fabric for letter-writing, and a lump of copper the size of her thumbnail. It was fine. It was enough. What else could she need? She would eat tonight, and that was all that mattered.

She stacked the items on the shelf in her kitchen, and found herself humming so loudly that her throat burned. It reminded her that she was still there. She could eat and she could breathe. She lived.

**gracekeeper** \ ˈgrās-ˌkē-pər \ a person who tends to the graves of those who die at sea

 **A** s the day passed into night, Renee sat on the porch of her lighthouse. She sat cross-legged again to keep her feet from dipping into the water without her permission, and she focused on the hot cup of tea between her palms. If she paid attention to the faint sting of hot copper, she could ignore the twitch in her fingers. To keep her dress clean, she’d exchanged it for her trousers and shirt. Despite the loose cotton shirt, the woollen trousers sheltered her flesh, protecting her limbs from the sea and the wind. She was alone, so she had no one to perform to. She could be herself. She could be more than a gracekeeper.

Renee sipped her tea as she waited for the stars, watching the sea roll out in every direction. There weren’t any ships passing at this time, or at least none that she could see. She could climb up to the lightroom, but she didn’t think the light actually worked. She’d never tried it. The lighthouses were built a very long time ago, and the sea had crept higher and higher over time. Perhaps some time ago they were the tallest structures in the world, but now they were only four storeys tall. Renee knew of landlocker tin-towers that were taller than the lighthouses of gracekeepers.

Looking out to sea was like looking out into a starless sky. There was nothing, nothing, nothing—and then there was something. A shadow on the horizon, moving closer.

There was no Resting due, no meeting with a bereaved family, and Renee swithered on the porch, not sure whether she should change back into her dress. She squinted her eyes until she was sure that there was only one person in the rowing boat. One person, no bundle of body. She ducked inside and put on her gloves, sat back down on the porch to finish her cup of tea, and waited.

The stranger didn’t offer any words of greeting, but when the light from the Resting room lit the man’s face, Renee couldn’t help but smile.

“Jean.”

When he pulled up alongside the dock, Jean nodded, but he focused first on climbing out of his rowing boat, and then on catching his breath. It was a fair distance to row.

“It’s been a while,” he finally said. “A month or so, I think. Time acts funny round here and I lose track sometimes. You know what it’s like out here, I just…” He gestured to the side of his head with a flourish of long, brown fingers. “It’s nice to see you again.”

His words were stilted, as if he weren’t quite sure how to be polite or admit that he enjoyed someone’s company. Renee offered him a warm smile regardless. “And you.”

They were speaking in the language native to North-East 3, the words slow and a little sing-song. Gracekeepers came from all across the world, but they were expected to serve every dampling who needed it and so they were taught languages as much as they were taught how to prepare a body for Resting.

Jean reached down into his rowing boat and pulled out a bottle before leading the way over to Renee’s porch. Renee followed him, but then passed him to go inside. She fetched her bowl from the kitchen, as she didn’t think it was right to offer him her used cup. Gracekeepers were only given one cup, one plate, one bowl, and one spoon. They were not expected to entertain visitors.

The night felt colder when Renee headed outside again. She handed him the bowl, and Jean started filling it with the bottle’s contents. It didn’t smell of anything in particular, but Renee doubted that it was water or tea.

“I should have brought my own,” he said, in reference to drinking from a bowl.

Renee agreed, but she didn’t think it polite to do so aloud. She didn’t comment until he went to tip some into Renee’s empty cup. “Oh, no. I can’t.”

Jean paused, a coil of dark hair flopped over his face, resting over his tattoo. “Yes you can. But if you don’t want to...” He trailed off, but the invitation was there.

Renee chewed on her bottom lip before catching herself at it and releasing it from her teeth. She didn’t like being drunk, but she supposed one cup would be fine; it wasn’t like there was anyone out here who would care. She nodded her assent, and let him fill the cup.

They sat on the porch together, and Jean tugged off his shoes to let his bare feet dangle in the water. Tiny fish clustered around his toes, ducking in and out of the surface of the water like a mass of slime and molten silver. She ought to shuffle further back, away from the water, but she let herself remain where she was to avoid a questioning glance from Jean.

“Do you remember leaving?” Jean asked, watching the fish by his feet.

Renee shrugged. The liquid in the cup burned her throat as she drank. She still wasn’t sure what it was. She’d not had it before.

Jean turned to look at her. _“Take a look at the land,_ they’d said. _You won’t see it again.”_

Renee nodded, but otherwise didn’t reply. They hadn’t said that to her, but Jean wasn’t looking for her story.

“It was my choice to do this,” Jean continued. “The life I led before… It was not good. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer, I don’t think. What I did was unforgivable to them, and I could never return to them but at the time it was worth it. It’s still worth it. I just needed a way out, and if I could do some good while I was at it?” He shrugged with one shoulder.

It made no difference to Renee, but if he was determined to tell her, she’d let him talk. This was not the first time that she had heard a confession. With some Restings, people thought that Renee was something she wasn’t. After the body had sunk, after the grace was settled, they’d turn to her. Hunched in the boat’s prow, or speaking in a monotone while staring at the horizon, they’d confess to her. They’d lied or hurt or killed, and they wanted her to make it all better. She couldn’t fix anything, but she could listen, and that had always been enough. Eventually tears were dried, spines were straightened, and Renee would pull the boat back to the dock.

“I turned myself into the next island council we stopped at,” Jean continued, “They gave me a choice, and—well, you know how it goes.” He motioned to Renee’s lighthouse, to the spiral of grace-cages, to the endless sea. The flick of his long, elegant fingers, the twisting motion of his wrist, reminded Renee of a past she often tried to forget. “Of course you know. It was my choice, really. I thought—I can be better than what I was before. I could be alive.”

Renee kept her gaze steady on Jean’s face as he refilled her bowl. When his grey eyes met her own, she didn’t look away. She knew what it meant to have a story, to have a past others recoiled at. She wouldn’t do that to him.

Jean set the bowl down and leaned back on his hands to peer up at the sky. Renee imagined that he was searching for the stars she had been waiting to find, but she didn’t follow his gaze. She wouldn’t look for them with him. She needed to find them alone.

He shook his head, brushing away the thoughts that plagued his mind, and then inclined his head as he held up the bottle toward her cup in silent offer. She tipped her cup toward him and the sound of it being filled was louder than the gentle slaps of the sea. Gracekeepers weren’t meant to drink, but she was not a gracekeeper until there was a Resting party. She felt goosebumps rise along her arms from the cooling air, and she drank again to feel the warmth of it. She could have gone inside to fetch her sweater, but she didn’t quite want to leave Jean on his own.

“Do you mind it?” Jean asked. “Being stuck out here?”

“We make our own choices,” Renee eventually said.

Jean hummed. “Have you ever thought of leaving?”

She hadn’t, not really. Her lighthouse was her home, more so than North-East 9 ever had been. She liked having a place for herself, something she knew wouldn’t be taken from her.

Maybe Jean didn’t feel that way. The graceyards could be a better option to whatever life he led before, but that didn’t necessarily make them the best option imaginable. Perhaps there was a place out there he wanted more. For a brief moment Renee wondered if the same applied to her, whether there was something better than Restings and graces and salt-crusted dresses, but she dismissed it as soon as the thought was acknowledged. She could daydream, there was no harm in that, but it didn’t make her particularly happy.

“You could leave,” she said. She thought about it for a while, about the likelihood of managing to leave without being found. “Your island council wouldn’t even know you’ve gone until the supply boat comes by. You could stowe away on a messenger boat and then hitch a ride on a military tanker.”

“A military tanker?” Jean echoed derisively. “They’d shoot us down before we could even manage to climb on board. You need to have governmental business to get on a military vessel.”

Renee was almost disappointed that he didn’t come up with an alternative solution. Musing for ideas wasn’t as fun when you played solo.

“Where would you go?” Renee asked. “If you did leave, I mean.”

“I can’t go back to my island,” Jean said.

“There’s more to the world than islands.”

“You mean boats?”

“The whole world is divided by land and sea, but here…” She trailed off, trying to find the words. “Lighthouses aren’t boats, but we’re not on land, either. We stay here in the graceyards and are neither landlocker nor dampling. We’re nothing.” She paused, and then corrected herself. “We’re neither.”

“Not forever, though,” Jean said. “They haven’t told us about that. If I die, will you Rest me? If you die, am I supposed to Rest you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so.”

The silence stretched, until Jean stood and walked over to his rowing boat. Despite emptying the bottle, his steps were steady. He left a line of wet footprints across the porch.

“Can I come back?” Jean asked softly. “It’s so quiet out here. Listening to records doesn’t—I mean, it’s not the same. Sometimes you need to say things and have someone respond.” His head was bowed. He seemed to be speaking to the flat water, the silvery fish, the uneven boards of the dock.

“I know,” Renee said, and this time her expression of sympathy was genuine. She understood that. The loneliness. She didn’t often let it show; noble and restrained, she was a good gracekeeper.

Jean got into his boat and rowed off through the neat lines of grace-cages. Renee watched until his shadow disappeared. She kept her back pressed to the wall of her lighthouse, away from the pull of the sea. Her breathing sounded as loud as waves. She went inside, climbed up to her small bedroom on the second floor, and lay down on her bed, face turned to the window. She stared out until light came back to the sky.


	4. three

**rigging** \ ˈri-giŋ \ the system of ropes, wires and chains used to support and operate the masts, sails, booms and yards of a ship

 **A** llison woke shivering. The air of her coracle was so cold that it ached. Last night, she, Dan, and Janie had tied the canvas tight to keep out the reek of the earth from the island they were docked at, but it was past dawn so the sun should have warmed their coracle by now.

She slipped out of her bunk and stretched up to pull back the canvas. Dew dribbled down onto her shoulders as she peered out. Even from inside the coracle she could see what was causing the chill: the massive bulk of another ship, casting its shadow across the _Foxhole Circus’_ tiny convoy. The boat’s hull was painted black, and the crew had left their red banners unfurled, blaring out contemptment to any passersby.

This was the fourth time that month that Allison had seen the _Circus Evermore._ It followed them from island to island, though this was the first morning that she had woken to its shadow. Wymack had managed to sail the _Foxhole_ just out of the Ravens’ reach for so long, but it was only a matter of time before the Ravens caught up with them. Allison hoped that he and Dan had a plan to shake the Ravens off. It was affecting the size of the Foxes’ crowd, which affected the size of their payment, which affected the size of their dinners.

Landlockers visited the circus to escape, to believe in something magical, something powerful, something bigger than their own tiny muck of land. The _Foxhole Circus_ granted this to them, but the _Circus Evermore_ had more resources, more seats, and more power. They were happy to turn down a night with the Foxes for a chance of a seat under the _Circus Evermore’_ s big top.

Allison refused to give the _Evermore_ a second more of her attention, so she instead watched the last island they would perform at before heading to the North-West archipelago. She almost released a breath of relief when she saw that it was wealthy; she was long tired of the plain and grubby islands with their plainer and grubbier landlockers. Guards were stationed along the docks to steer their convoy into harbour, and there were a string of spirit lamps between the tower blocks to light the way. Even the tower blocks themselves were improved: instead of pitted metal sidings, the buildings were round with concentric rings of columns holding up each structure.

Allison flicked her eyes to the _Foxhole_ where Wymack stood at the wheel. She thought he should have done a little more to neaten his appearance now they had an audience other than the sea. The Foxes didn’t have the finery of paper shirts that some other circus crews did—Allison sometimes forgot how easily impressed the landlockers were—but they needed a distraction from the _Foxhole’_ s warped wooden hull and the rash of rust on the coracles. Something to make it seem glamorously faded, rather than decrepit.

At the sight of Wymack’s plain, salt-hardened shirt and scruff, Allison ducked back into her coracle and dragged out her chest of clothes. When Dan and Janie noticed what she was doing, they leaned over to peek inside at the finery.

When Allison had joined the _Foxhole Circus,_ she hadn’t joined empty-handed. She’d made sure that her escape plan included carrying a chest of the fine clothes she’d stolen from her family. She wasn’t stupid: she knew that life as a dampling on a circus boat would be a far cry from the lifestyle she grew up in, but she also knew that landlockers liked to see a little glamour before they’d share their food and precious stones.

Sometimes traditional islands liked a traditional show. Sometimes they wanted more subversion than even this circus could provide. Often their preference only became clear when they got the opposite of what they wanted; many circus folk had spent nights on the prison boat for going too far, and many more were scarred from being pelted with shells and stones by bored crowds who felt they had not gone far enough.

It took half an hour to divvy-up her clothes, but they wouldn’t dress until they reworked the coracles’ anchorage. When it was time to perform, the crew would heave the _Foxhole_ ashore and anchor the coracles further out. They had to use a raft to pull themselves to the docks. It was awkward, but it was the only way. The landlockers didn’t want damplings on their land any more than they had to be, and the Foxes were for the most part quite happy with that.

Once the _Foxhole_ was tied up to a docking bay, the rest of the crew pulled themselves to land, ready to begin the work of turning the boat into a circus. They knew not to expect any help; landlockers didn’t like to go closer to the water than the blackshore. The crew liked to make jokes that the clams thought the seaweed cursed, but Allison knew that it was because they thought the sea as disgusting as damplings.

After they pulled up the big top, the crew gathered behind curtains to change. They wouldn't step onto the blackshore in costume, but they would have to make a good impression if they had any chances of a good trade.

Dan was the first to approach the port crew, and she hid the wobble in her legs with grace. The landlockers, however, clued in on how Allison didn’t stumble at all, and they noticed the same of Matt and Nicky. If they weren’t moonstruck by the excitement of the Foxes’ reputation, then they were reassured by the steadiness of some of their feet on the ground. Landlockers found Allison, Matt, and Nicky familiar in a way they couldn’t quite explain. They wouldn’t accept them as true landlockers, but despite the tiny bells on their clothes they knew they weren’t true damplings either.

Once the port crew accepted their docking status as circus folk, they were quick to dismiss them. Allison had turned back to the _Foxhole_ when a voice called out to greet them. She turned around to see a South-West woman approaching them over the sand. She stopped at the edge of the blackshore, wearing the typical clothes of a landlocker: all bright colours and long skirts and sandals with woollen tassels. They never had to worry about loose clothing getting caught in a ship’s rigging. Allison felt a wave of envy over the impractical but beautiful attire, and then told herself she would look better in the flowing skirts anyway.

“Kevin,” the woman said in greeting. “It’s been so long. I’m glad you could make it today.”

Allison turned to Kevin with an eyebrow raised, but Kevin ignored her. “It’s good to see you again, Kathy.” He smiled as he took her hand, and Dan feigned swooning into Matt’s arms at the sight of Kevin’s ‘performance’ face. It was a far cry from the brittle and bitter smile of reality.

Kathy turned her smile on the rest of the team. “And this is who you left the _Circus Evermore_ for? They must be very good.” The _‘to make up for… everything else’_ was unspoken but nevertheless heard.

“They are,” Kevin said, and ignored the matching expressions of surprise that the Foxes were giving him. Even though Allison knew it was just a part of his public facade, Kevin’s compliments were rare enough to startle her.

“Brilliant,” Kathy said, distracted.

Allison turned to follow her gaze behind them, back to the docks, to find Kathy’s distraction. She grit her teeth together in frustration and ire as she saw the _Evermore’s_ crew preparing their circus boat for a night’s performance.

Matt was the first to react with a furious, “What are they doing here?”

“I’ll ask,” Andrew said, speaking up for the first time that morning, and started toward the docks.

Wymack hauled him to a stop by grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. “You are not allowed to kill anyone while we’re on land. If you get yourself thrown on a prison boat I’m not bailing you out.”

Andrew didn’t look like he’d heard a word, but Wymack ploughed on regardless. “Worry less about the Ravens and more about your charges, got me? Focus, Kevin. You too, Neil.” Allison looked over but Neil was still staring up at the _Evermore._ “Neil,” Wymack said, louder, and snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face. Neil flinched hard enough for the others to feel it, and Allison was grateful his fox wasn’t here to tear their arms off for it.

“I’m fine,” Neil said, predictably. “I’m starting to think he likes me after all.”

Allison huffed out an exasperated laugh. It was no secret that Riko Moriyama had it out for Neil, in the same way he had it out for Kevin. Riko was under some sick delusion that Neil and Kevin were misplaced toys to bring ‘home’.

Kathy, however, didn’t pick up on the joke, and instead jumped to a conclusion Allison had no hope in tracking. “Oh, _oh.”_ Kathy clapped her hands once in glee. “I had heard your two ships were following the same route. A joint performance would be fantastic, wouldn’t it? The _Circus Evermore_ and the _Foxhole Circus._ I can see it now. I’ll ask Tetsuji as soon as they cross the blackshore.”

Neil stared dumbly at her, and Kevin’s face paled. “No,” Neil said.

“Will you talk to him?” Kathy asked Kevin, looking for the support she wasn’t going to get.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” Kevin said.

Kathy wasn’t perturbed. “Everyone says they want to know what you left the _Circus Evermore_ for, but what they _really_ want is to see you back home. I wondered if there was a chance to do both. What’s that old expression? Two birds with one stone? I think a little… collaboration would be the best way to show them where you belong. Give everyone a chance to see both circuses on the same stage, no?” She spread her hands out in a grand gesture, and Allison thought she should leave the theatrics to Dan. Kathy was terrible at it. “The _Foxhole Circus_ is a mystery addition to this archipelago, but news travelled of your… _upbringings._ Such ambitions and dreams from such humble beginnings, don’t you think? Tonight will be your debut, and what better way to do it than alongside the world’s most revered circus.”

“No,” Neil said, and shook his head when Kathy turned to stare at him. “No. We’re not interested.”

Kathy’s smile twitched a little. She reached out as if to pat his shoulder, but Neil backed out of reach just as Andrew stepped forward.

“Don’t be shy,” Kathy said. “If you can perform in front of an entire island then you can do so while sharing the stage. This is the easy part. You just do your little performances for one night and then you can go back to your dampling lives. You need our resources, so the least you can do is put in a little extra effort.”

Neil opened his mouth with a retort but Matt clasped his hand over his mouth before he could speak.

“Be smart,” Kathy said to the Foxes at large. She spoke with the air of one who thought she’d seen far more of the world than a group of twenty-somethings had. Allison was fairly certain that all the Foxes wanted to hit her for it. A landlocker couldn’t _imagine_ what life was like off the islands. “You can’t spend your lives in the shadows when you’re training with Kevin Day.”

“We said no,” Dan said with a tone of finality, but Kathy wasn’t listening.

“You’re not looking at the big picture. Teaming up with the Ravens could make the world for you. If you want to get anywhere, you need their help. Everything has fallen so perfectly into place for you. Don’t let it sink so early in the game or you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.” Kathy turned to Kevin. “Kevin, you understand, don’t you?”

Kevin didn’t answer, but Wymack stepped in for him. “You heard Dan. We said no. We perform as Foxes and only as Foxes, or we’ll be on our way.”

Kathy was visibly unhappy by the turn of events, but she couldn’t go back to her clams and explain that the evening’s entertainment was cancelled. She made a displeased humming noise, before turning on her heel and walking back up the shore.

Once Kathy left them be, the Foxes made their way back to the _Foxhole_ and began their preparations for the night’s show. Nicky had spent his last skin-dive gathering enough raw materials to create the collection of coloured powders and liquids that he offered them now. He claimed that they were even safe enough for Neil’s fox to eat, though by Neil’s expression he would rather avoid having to scrape black goop off her tongue. He didn’t have much of a choice, though; Nicky spent far too much time on figuring out the aesthetics of each act to not whine and lament if Neil or his fox went on stage without some colouring. They knew to make do with what they were given.

Allison screwed off the lid of her own jar, and examined the silver paint within with pursed lips. She dipped a fingertip in and examined its consistency. It would have to do.

**yard** \ ˈyärd \ a long spar tapered toward the ends to support and spread the head of a square sail

 **T** he evening began with Janie’s contortionism under a single spotlight while Allison climbed her silks suspended off the mainmast yard. They had been dyed black with seaweed for the night, and her dark skin had been painted with patterns of silver and white to match her braids. When the rest of the stage lights were lit, Allison was a vague outline of a figure; more movement and magic than anything truly discernible.

Janie pulled herself into strange and hypnotising shapes, her dark makeup stark against her pale skin. Nicky flirted in the crowds wearing a pair of suspenders from the costume-closet and the waistcoat Allison had lent him earlier. Allison spent a brief moment threatening him under her breath if he returned it stained or torn, but it was soon drowned out as the applause increased with each passing moment.

During Matt’s time on stage, lifting near impossible weights and swallowing swords, Allison spied out from behind the curtain to get a look at the crowd. As with many islands, the men and women were seated separately, with all the children on the women’s side. It was incredibly backwards if not boring, and Allison wondered what they would do if anyone came out as non-binary. It was on her second sweep of the crowd that she noticed a small crowd of black amongst the bright colours. It took her no time at all to notice Riko and Tetsuji among their Ravens, but they weren’t looking at her. Riko’s furious eyes were pinned on Kevin, standing beside Wymack and only just visible behind the stage curtains.

She averted her gaze, deciding that they weren’t worth her time. Instead, she looked for the subtle signs that the crowds would identify with the _Foxhole Circus’_ s subversion: girls with short hair, men sitting close enough to touch. Nothing. Still, the more conservative the island was, the more the landlockers might be desperate for change.

The circus acts continued, and Allison remained onstage, high up on her silks, until Matt dropped the curtain for the interval. The applause floated up like birds, and the Foxes made their way behindcurtains.

The second portion of the show was supposed to have been just Seth and Neil, but as soon as the Foxes realised they were sharing the dock with the Ravens, Andrew had stepped up and inserted himself between their acts. It meant that they only had fifteen minutes to rest in peace before the funeral dance.

In the second half of the show, the fox-boy would die.

**will-o’-the-wisp** \ ˌwil-ə-t͟hə-ˈwisp \ an atmospheric ghost light seen by travelers at night

 **F** rom behindcurtains, Allison watched as the second half of the night began. The orange mainsail had been temporarily replaced by a black dropsheet for the act. As the music started, Seth lit entire candelabras with blue-fire before they were pulled up to various heights under the big top, painting the ceiling with will-o'-the-wisps. Higher and higher they climbed, tilting the crowd’s heads further and further to watch the ghostlight grow.

Seth’s bow was quickly followed by Andrew’s entrance. The music changed to something angrier, fiercer, all drumbeat to Seth’s haunting piano. Each rhythm pulsing from the gramophone was marked by the _thud_ of one of Andrew’s knives as they were thrown to parts of the ship, dictated by spotlights. Each blade glinted with poised danger until it struck true.

Nicky perused the crowds until he found a volunteer from the landlocker section, and he tied them up to a metal wheel that was occasionally used as a wheel of fortune. Allison supposed that it was still a wheel of fortune: _to die or not to die._ It was rigged in the landlocker’s favour, though; she didn’t think she’d ever seen Andrew miss a target.

Posturing in the face of the Ravens or not, the threat was clear: attempt anything with one of the Foxes, and you’ll end up with a blade in your throat.

Andrew threw knife after knife, and the blankness on his face wasn’t part of the act but it didn’t stop the crowds from eating it up. They were desperate for the risk, for the chance to see a dampling thrown in a prison boat or drowned. They wanted the reminder that no matter what happened; the landlockers would remain in power.

Eventually the landlocker was released from the wheel. Nicky led them back to their seat in the stands, and the wobbliness of their legs reminded Allison of damplings landing on solid ground for the first time in months.

While the landlocker returned to their seat and Nicky to the stage, Andrew remained onstage, pacing like a trapped animal. It reminded her of the stories she read as a child, of fierce tigers who would eat those who crossed their paths. At the other side of the stage Aaron crouched by the wind-up gramophone, readying the needle. He wore his tiny brass bell around his wrist, as Allison wore hers around her ankle. Even when performing, they could not forget what they really were.

The music was silenced, but quieter still was the silence from the audience. It was like they all took a collective intake, and held their breath as one. A single spotlight remained on Andrew, but the rest of the stage was engulfed in darkness.

Then, a second light, directed at the curtain. Andrew turned to look at it, and made a show of twirling his knife up in his hand once, twice, as if in consideration. Then, with almost alarming speed, he threw the knife at the spotlight on the curtain, tearing through it cleanly. To the audience, the knife looked like it had vanished behind the curtain, but to the Foxes, it had landed on a cushion-covered board Matt held up behind the curtain.

The stage remained silent, and the only movement was Andrew’s heavy breathing until the curtain lifted in silence to reveal Neil centerstage. His costume was made up of a white shirt and white trousers, both borrowed from Allison. His feet bare and his skin more ashen than natural. It made the red paint soaking his shirt all the more horrifying. He was luminous, motionless, his spread arms bound to a huge whalebone cross that was wrapped in the blood-red ribbons leftover from the maypole. His fox was still behindcurtains, wrapped in gold chains again with her fur powdered black as the night sky.

The audience didn’t make a sound. They didn’t seem to dare. The spotlight stayed longer on Neil than he was usually comfortable with, and Allison could hear the audience shift in their seats, not sure of what to think. Allison could imagine it, being amongst the crowds, wondering whether this was all part of the act. Neil kept his face tilted upwards and wasn’t visibly breathing, though Allison knew that he had practiced death long before joining the Foxes.

She felt the moment the audience startled at the crackle from the gramophone. Another spotlight lit the stage, centering on Neil’s fox as she crept onto the stage, violins whispering with every hesitant step. The crowd flinched back as one at the sight of the fox, and then, after a heartbeat, leaned forward in a wave of curiosity. No one was looking at Neil now. At that cue, Allison saw Neil extend the first two fingers of both hands, freeing the razor blades tucked against his palms.

The fox approached. Her black fur merged with the black curtain so that all that was clear were the fine lines of her chains. She raised herself up on her back legs and, unnoticed by all but the Foxes, Neil used the razor blades to slice through the ropes. The music stopped, and Neil tumbled off the cross and crumpled onto the deck.

The violins trembled as the fox tentatively approached Neil’s lifeless body and the two spotlights merged as one. After a sniff, nuzzling Neil’s face, she sat back on her haunches and sang her song of grief. Allison’s heart beat steadily in contrast to the uneven wails of the violins. On the outside, grief was expressed in judders, faltering and unsure, but inside it felt as constant as breathing.

The fox stood once more, pawing at Neil’s brow.

The violins died.

The crowd held their breath.

And then Neil was resurrected.

He raised one arm, reaching up to cradle the fox’s face, and she startled backwards, backing away from Neil into the shadows. Neil was left alone in the spotlight, and Allison felt a flash flood of confusion before it drained into anticipation. She didn’t have time to think; she could only watch. Neil’s body was curved into a comma, and in silence he twisted on the ground to look over his shoulder to his fox. The violins slid back into a wavering single note. Neil raised to his knees slowly, ever so slowly, and used his hidden razor blade to slit the front of his shirt open. To the audience, it exposed his bronze flesh beneath, but all the Foxes knew that he wore an undershirt the colour of his own skin to hide the scars of his past.

The violins fell back into a rhythm, from loss to reunion. Neil reached into the shadows and coaxed his fox back into the spotlight. She seemed confused, which had Allison furrowing her brow again. She wasn’t supposed to have left the spotlight. Neil tapped his shoulders as he raised his arms up to the sides of his head, and caught his fox as she jumped. She slinked around his shoulders to drape around his neck, becoming one being once more. Neil’s fox had brought him back. He had returned to her, as he would always return to her.

She jumped down from his back to the deck, and she weaved between Neil’s legs as they circled around the edge of the spotlight together, around the whole stage until they reached the gap in the curtains where the others waited behindcurtains. They exited the stage to a chaos of violins, and were soon engulfed in the chaos of Foxes.

The crew swept Neil into the salty embrace of the curtains, and the fox remained close to his side. Allison noticed how nervous Neil looked, the anxiety rolling off him in waves, ebbing and flowing with every step. It settled when Andrew stepped in front of Neil, and the fox moved to weave between Andrew’s legs, pushing her head into his calf in search of comfort.

The fox had thought that Neil’s death was real. She had believed it.

Allison could hear Dan’s voice announcing the end of the show, and she quickly lost sight of Neil and his fox as Andrew pulled them further behindcurtains. Allison knew that they would spend at least an hour stroking their hands along her sinewy back, murmuring platitudes, soothing her with familiarity as they cleaned her of the black paints. They had done the funeral dance before, but not like this.

She wasn’t supposed to run away.

She wasn’t supposed to grieve.

Did she understand that it was just a show? When she was pawing at Neil’s face—when Neil did not speak or move or open his eyes—did she know that Neil was only pretending?

Allison turned to the rest of her crew, to see them all looking in the direction Neil had left. They had all noticed that something had gone wrong that night, and they knew that there was nothing they could do to help. They had to trust that Neil knew what he was doing.

Dan broke their stillness. She pulled open the curtains with her hat held to her chest, and looked around at her Foxes’ faces. “What?”

Allison shook her head in a silent promise to fill her in later, and reached up to take out the twine holding her braids into a knot at the top of her head. The others glanced over before taking apart small pieces from their costumes as Dan and Allison led them back to the coracles. They would wash the colours off their skins, take off their masks from the night, and they would be themselves once again. In their coracles, they were not performers, not burdens, not dangers, not weapons, not monsters.

They were family.

**seiryu** \ ˌsār-ˈyü \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing east

 **T** he _Foxhole_ had been allowed to dock overnight on the island, which meant that the landlockers had enjoyed the show. Unfortunately, the landlockers had also given the same privilege to the _Evermore._ The Foxes were keen to ignore this, congregating in the crew's quarters of the _Foxhole_ to eat and drink the night away. A warm glow filled the forecastle, and although Allison wrinkled her nose at the foul smell of the seal-fat lamps, she could admit that they lit up as bright as sunshine. She soon realised that the seal-fat lamps weren’t the only pungent smell in the room. Seth and Nicky were both spritzing patchouli water on themselves and bickering as they did so.

Allison sat down next to Neil and watched Seth pretty himself up for the clams. She wasn’t interested in a relationship with him, nor in spending the night together, but she could still recognise his attractiveness. He still had the gold shimmer in his hair from their performance, and Nicky had added to his freckles with dots of shimmering paint. Nicky was dolling himself up with layers of coloured fabric and the abandoned objects and strange bones found on skin-dives. When landlockers bunked up with a circus performer they expected something special, that was for sure. They wanted to blink glitter for at least a week after. They wanted a secret to keep from their future spouses.

“Bet they’ll both get back so late Wymack’ll ring them out for sleeping on the job tomorrow,” Allison said.

Neil tilted his head toward her in acknowledgement, but it was Matt who answered.

“I’ll take that. I think they’ll bring their clams back here.”

“What are you putting on it?” Allison asked.

“If I win, I get to crash with Dan. If you win, I’ll give you my pinstripe shirt.”

Allison wanted to snatch at that offer; the shirt was a pale blue with white threading. She had borrowed it enough times to know it looked better on her than it did Matt. But even with a good shirt in the mix Allison wasn’t careless.

“You can _sleep_ in Dan’s bunk with her. I won’t subject myself to facing the wall with a pillow over my head.”

Matt laughed. “I don’t like an audience any more than you do.”

Allison sneered. “Afraid you won’t live up to expectations?”

Matt put his hand over his heart. “You have expectations? You think of me? Sorry, Allison. I love you and all, but like a friend.”

“That would be funny if you didn’t insist Neil was just a friend too.”

Neil turned to them at the sound of his name with a raised eyebrow. Matt didn’t say anything so Allison answered for him. “Matt thinks you’re hot, babe.”

Neil gave Matt a sideways look. “I know.”

Allison just laughed triumphantly while Matt spluttered. “And do you think he’s hot?” she asked.

Neil turned back to the others, but he’d heard the question. “Doesn’t mean I’d act on it.”

Allison followed his gaze to Andrew, who was sitting with Nicky. Nicky was talking a mile a minute, but Andrew didn’t appear to be listening until Allison saw him nod once at something Nicky said.

Matt collected himself and nodded to Allison. “I’ll wash them for you tomorrow,” he said, meaning the matching pinstripe trousers he had offered in their month-long bet whether Matt’s attraction to Neil was mutual.

Gossip was the blood of the _Foxhole Circus,_ and everyone knew everything about everyone, or at least they tried to. There was a steady current of bets and ration exchanging, but there were several outstanding bets that had yet to be closed: whether Wymack and Abby were ever going to get together, who started Neil and Andrew’s ‘thing’ (and it had been a long time for the Foxes to find proof that they were even involved), and whether Kevin would ever go back to the _Evermore_ if given the chance.

It seemed that tonight was the night to close at least one of those. Wymack appeared in the doorway, and his expression was displeased.

“We’ve got company.”

The Foxes scrambled together in their various drunken states. Neither Kevin nor Aaron had touched a drop of alcohol—though Neil and Andrew hadn’t had enough to get drunk—but Kevin’s expression and ashen face made him look like he was seriously reconsidering his sobriety. Allison made a mental note to check on him the following day.

The Ravens were waiting for them on the docks, with Riko and Tetsuji standing upfront to greet them.

Riko took the last few steps to the shoreline. He was smiling, but none of the Foxes were stupid enough to think he was happy; the look in his eyes was one of enraged retalliation for existing without his permission. Riko constantly looked down on other circus boats, as if the tattoo of Seiryu on his left cheekbone really marked him as superior. Allison remembered Neil once reminding him that his name meant nothing on the sea. Moriyama or not, Riko was a dampling just like the rest of them.

The Foxes were infamous for their infighting and their inability to get along almost all the time, but they always banded together to defend one of their own. Kevin was no exception. Allison moved to stand in front of him protectively, in the same way all the others did. Everyone, that was, except for Andrew.

Andrew took a step forward, the first Fox to step off the gangplank and onto the docks, and stood before Riko in challenge. Andrew had to tilt his head back to look Riko in the eye, but no one was stupid enough to think that Andrew’s height made him any less dangerous.

Riko ignored him, which was probably the stupidest thing he’d done all month. He looked over the heads of the Foxes as they stepped onto the docks to watch Kevin, an orca on the hunt.

“Kevin,” he said, likely encouraged by Kevin’s full-fledged terror. “It’s been so long.”

“It’s been long enough,” Neil said coldly from where he stood at the head of the Foxes still on the gangplank. Matt had his hand clasped around Neil’s bicep to hold him back if he needed to, but it was no secret that Neil was more dangerous with his mouth than he was with his fists.

Riko ignored him. “I think you’ve shrunk since I last saw you,” he said to Kevin. “Don’t they feed you in the _Foxhole Circus?”_ He then deigned to finally look at those Kevin had chosen as his family. “One can’t survive on wishful thinking. I suppose I’m worried your obsession will lead to another accident.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Neil asked, but he didn’t give Riko the chance to answer. “An accident? Last time I checked, Kevin broke his arm because of your failure.”

Riko finally looked at Neil. “I’m sure that to untrained eyes Kevin’s miscalculation could look like I didn’t catch him in time, in the same way that to untrained eyes your little beast was supposed to run away to the shadows. You ought to do your circus a favour and stew the rat before it leaves you like your mother did.”

Allison could feel Neil’s anger radiating from him in waves of fury. They had hoped that no one would notice that Neil’s act had gone wrong, but good fortune rarely graced the _Foxhole Circus._

Neil’s reply was all ice. “Fuck you.”

“I will ask you only once to tone down that animosity.”

“I can’t,” Neil said, and Allison could hear the sharp smile from the tone of his voice. “I have a bit of an attitude problem.”

Riko’s smile was all ice to Neil’s fire. “A bit?”

“I think it’s fair to assume that you didn’t ask us to meet you here to posture,” Wymack said, talking to Tetsuji rather than Riko. Riko might be the self-proclaimed king of the Ravens, but it was Tetsuji with the title of captain and ringmaster.

“Kevin cannot and will not perform with us again,” Tetsuji said. “He knows that our affections for him does not forgive his inadequacies onstage.” He then looked at Kevin directly, and Allison didn’t have to turn around to know that Kevin withered under his stare. “That doesn’t mean that the _Circus Evermore_ isn’t his home. His work in the _Foxhole Circus_ has proved that we can find a place for him on our crew. We’d like him to return to us as one of our trainers. I’m sure that we can offer some form of… repayment, for your loss.”

Allison heard Kevin whimper from behind her, and she pushed her shoulder back to press against his in a sign of support and alliance. No matter how much the Ravens offered, they would never let Kevin return to the _Evermore._

“You wouldn’t honestly have him go back, would you?” Neil asked Tetsuji. “I can’t believe it.”

Tetsuji regarded Neil in the way a shark would regard a remora. “We don’t require your belief.”

“Stop being so selfish,” Neil said. Matt tugged on Neil’s arm but Neil shrugged him off. “If Kevin’s dream has always been to be the best on the trapeze then what right do you have to take it away from him? The Foxes are giving him a chance of returning to perform whereas you’d relegate him to the sidelines forever. He has no reason to return to the _Evermore.”_

“The _Foxhole Circus_ is a waste of his talents,” Riko said.

“Not much as the _Circus Evermore_ was,” Neil said, and Seth choked out a cough. “You’ve got a big shiny boat? Congratulations and big deal. Maintaining a reputation on the islands is far easier than starting over from the seabed. Kevin returning to the stage is going to be just that: he’s going to face audiences without Riko at his side. You and Kevin have always performed in each other’s shadows. You’ve always been a pair. People are going to get bored of your solo show, and then they’ll finally see what Kevin can be like without you holding him back. People are finally going to know which one of you is better.” Neil cocked his head to the side. “And I think you’re afraid.”

Riko’s smile could have frozen the entire ocean. “I’m not afraid of Kevin.”

“No,” Andrew said, and it was then that Allison noticed the knife he’d slipped from one of his armbands. It was pointed at the hollow of Riko’s throat. “But you should be scared of his family.” He dragged the blade of the knife against Riko’s throat, unfortunately too gentle to break skin. Allison didn’t doubt for a second that Andrew wanted to slit his throat and be done with it, but they were on land, and Andrew couldn’t protect Kevin or Neil from a prison boat. “Rumour has it we’re crazy.”

Riko swallowed hard, but it was Tetsuji that replied. “There’s no need for unnecessary violence. Kevin?”

It took Allison a moment to realise he was still waiting on Kevin’s answer, as if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“My place is in the _Foxhole Circus.”_

Tetsuji gave a small nod, but none of the Foxes were stupid to think that that would be the end of it. The _Evermore_ would follow the _Foxhole_ across the entire sea to have Kevin at Riko’s side once more, and they certainly didn’t care whether Kevin wished for it or not.

The Foxes risked turning their backs on the Ravens and headed back to the _Foxhole_ in single-file. Allison wished for a more dramatic exit, but it was all they had.

They didn’t all stay for long. Andrew stole a couple cups of water and directed Kevin and Neil back outside. Hopefully they were heading to the coracles, though Allison didn’t put it past Neil to find his way onto the _Evermore_ and stir up trouble.

“Drink up,” Dan called out to her crew once Andrew’s heavy footsteps from his ridiculous boots faded into silence. “There’s a storm coming soon, you know.”

They did know. It was all the clams had talked about before, during, and after the show. Nicky had filled the Foxes in on all the landlocker gossip, and that was the hot topic of the night. There had been a red sunrise over South-West 13, the clouds were moving against the wind, and the elderly landlockers’ aches and pains grew worse. The predictions were never entirely accurate; too many false alarms and too many near misses. But it was all they had. The landlockers had driven witches to extinction.

Seth scoffed as he filled his copper cup to the brim. “And we should all get as pissed as stoats in preparation?”

“It’s gonna be the last chance to be for a while,” Matt said.

And the Foxes filled their cups. When morning fell, Allison was sure that she would wish she had stuck to water, but in that moment she didn’t care: she wanted to lose herself to the haze and the glow; she wanted a drunken escapade with Dan and Janie on their way back to their coracle.

Allison downed the contents of her cup and slammed it on the table. “It’s a storm,” she said. “It’s not like we’ve never gone through one of those before.”

“It’s been ahead of us for days,” Janie said, resting her chin in her hand. “It’s been taunting us. We may need the good grace of the sea, but she couldn’t care less what we do, or whether we’re alive when we do it.”

Matt frowned. “We could stay here and wait it out.”

“I’m sure the clams would love that,” Seth said derisively.

Wymack shook his head. “I’m not risking staying with the _Evermore_ docked next door. We sail to the next island, and we wait it out there if it extends longer than that.”

Seth raised his now empty cup in a mockery of a toast. “We move forward or we die.”

And so they drank in toast.

Allison was the last to head back onto the deck, trailing behind Dan and Janie, and it was then that she felt the storm finally stirring to life. The crew furled the big top and pulled up the anchor under a sky bruised dark with clouds. As the sun set it lit the clouds from below, making them round and bright as fruit.

They moved forward on to the next island, for what choice did they have? Landlockers were not sympathetic to the problems of the sea, and the circus folk would rather take their chances with the petulant waves than the _Evermore._ With glitter in their blood, coals in their chests, choking on their secrets, they sailed into the night. Soon they lost sight of land, and the first drops of rain fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a footnote: one of the warning signs for a storm that Allison's narrative mentions (a red sky in the morning) is created by a process called _Rayleigh Scattering_. Even though Kathy Ferdinand's scene is no longer set in Raleigh (South-West 13 is what's left of the flooded Eastern Ranges of Colombia), I thought the parallel was p cool


	5. four

**pinnace** \ ˈpi-nəs \ a light boat propelled by sails or oars, used as a tender for merchant vessels

 **R** enee always felt untethered during a storm, unmoored, like she needed to yank open her door and join it in its rage, despite its distance from the doldrums.

She didn’t like that part of herself.

So she ignored the waves dancing around the base of her lighthouse, pretending that it wasn’t making it difficult for her to think straight. It took all her energy and focus to eat her meals, perform the Restings, and tip dead birds into the water.

During the evening she wound up the gramophone and listened to records as she ate, the music rolling and wavering. It almost felt like a conversation, but Jean had been right: sometimes you need to say things and have someone respond.

It wasn’t only silence that troubled her mind: the supply boat was late and her cupboards were almost empty. Renee’s newfound pastime was stopping herself from spiraling into a panic: wishing for a boat didn’t make it arrive any faster. Instead, she rationed the food she had left, and started eyeing the sea with more consideration. If it came down to it, she would fish. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Renee had seen too much of the world to be squeamish.

Until then, Renee decided it was wise to go about her normal routine. She could ration, but she would be rational. She took her rowing boat out to the gracecages, but paused when she reached the closest one. It was floating in its cage, the feathers a green so pale that from a distance the grace would resemble a cresting wave. Renee pulled off her gloves, and let her fingertips hover over the surface of the water. Her fingers trembled, and she wasn’t entirely sure that it was a twitch of her own muscle and bone than it was the currents in her bloodstream. _Like calls to like._ She pulled her hand back before it got the better of her and pulled on her glove once more. It was grounding, to feel the soft leather crinkle with each knuckle.

As the days went by, and the storm raged on, and Renee took her rowing boat out to the gracecages again and again. As each day passed she let her fingers dip closer and closer to the water. She almost convinced herself that there would be no harm in touching it. That there wouldn’t be any consequences if she leaned out and dipped her fingers into the sea, followed by her hands, and then her wrists, until she slipped out of her boat entirely and became consumed by the water.

She wondered what would happen if she stayed down there. As a child Renee had been raised to believe that trees were worshipped because they had been there before everyone who had ever lived on land, and that they would still be there after everyone had died. Trees were immortal, eternal. But Renee knew that the sea had been there longer than any tree had, and would still remain when trees were patchwork of ash and dust.

Renee was making tea when the supply boat finally arrived. She had been staring out the window, hoping for a distraction from the clumping of tea leaves at the base of her cup. At the sight of the pinnace making its way from the supply boat to Renee’s dock she set down her cup and pulled on her gloves. The time to reach the bottom floor of her lighthouse seemed to stretch with each gnaw of hunger.

She accepted the delivery with only a small smile. The deliveryperson, who only went by Alvarez, didn’t seem to mind her silence, keeping up a steady stream of one-sided stories. Renee remained on the porch as they hauled cages of graces from the boat to the dock to the porch. She went upstairs with them as they took the box of perishable supplies to her kitchen. She threw the soggy tea leaves out the window as soon as Alvarez’s back was turned.

Alvarez spoke of their wife Laila; of the trading routes and wheat shortages; of an abandoned ship found floating, perhaps empty for years, crewed only by cats; of a boy who tried to chop down a tree and had his hands cut off for it; and of a baby born with gills and webbed hands. Renee had never heard of such a being, but Alvarez told her that it had been buried alive by its landlocker mother.

They were the same stories Renee had been told for years, with only small variations. Sometimes it was a boy, sometimes it was a girl, sometimes it was neither. Sometimes it was the corn that ran out. Sometimes it was a ship crewed by seagulls. Sometimes they had tried to pick a flower from the earth rather than cut down a tree. Sometimes it was a baby born with scaly skin.

Alvarez’s chatter felt like one of Renee’s records playing softly in the background, though the desire to respond wasn’t entirely there. She didn’t feel she had anything interesting to say; what gossip could a gracekeeper share? It wasn’t fair to tell tales of grief and mourning, and she didn’t think Alvarez would want to know anyway.

Eventually, the supply boat had been emptied and Renee’s kitchen cupboards were full. The Resting room had new stacks of gracecages for Renee to use for Restings. She walked Alvarez out to their boat with her gloved hands clasped behind her back in what she hoped seemed like a normal stance for a gracekeeper. She doubted that Alvarez would ask; none of them did, but the fear still lingered. Over the past seven years, Renee had received thousands of graces, delivered by dozens of different supply boats, and none had ever seen her hands. She was only allowed as many graces as she needed to stay alive, but the exchange of Restings for food was not the only thing keeping her alive. Wearing her gloves was as important as eating, as important as breathing.

If an innocent child born with gills or scales was buried alive, she didn’t know what the landlockers would do to her.

**dreg** \ ˈdreg \ sediment contained in a liquid or precipitated from it

 **S** everal days passed, and Renee filled them with Rested bodies and replenished energy. She woke one morning to a dark sky and choppy water licking up over the edges of her porch. She pulled the porch further up the lighthouse using a series of levers and pulleys, but the anxious trilling from the gracecages made her want to cover her ears or stand at the edge of her porch and scream with them.

She was still undecided when she took her rowing boat out to the graces, unlocking each cage one by one as she passed. Most of them were too weak to fly, but some might make it out of their cages, flying a few yards before falling into the sea to drown. They hadn’t been fed or watered in too long, just as a good gracekeeper had allowed.

Bitterness ached.

If she took them inside with her, sheltering them from the storm, they would still die for she had no food for them, either. Whatever she did, she could not save them. A gracekeeper wasn’t supposed to save things. Not the graces, not the corpses, not even the mourning crews.

But she opened all the cages, and returned to her lighthouse. Perhaps she could grant them a little while of peace, of feigned freedom. It was all she had to offer, from her own prison of sorts.

In the Resting room, only two newly delivered graces remained. She didn’t have enough to feed them, and she wouldn’t expect another Resting crew for days after the storm, let alone another supply boat. She stood in front of the cages, trying to find comfort in their coos. Comfort didn’t come. She carried the cages to her open door, and flug open the cage doors, thinking that the graces would spread their wings and fly out as quick as a sailfish. Instead, the pair took their time, hopping out of their cages to peck at the floor, shivering their feathers and regarding Renee with their tiny black eyes. Renee had to step toward them to shoo them out the door, but she did so hesitantly; who was she to decide what was best for the graces? Perhaps they wanted to starve in her company.

She had to hope that they could find life again, fly fast and far enough to find land. They were stronger than the Resting graces. They had a chance.

Finally they made their way onto the newly risen porch, and opened their wings to the wind. Renee didn’t watch as they disappeared into the horizon. She didn’t want to see them fall.

Instead she made another pot of tea. While it brewed she looked out of the window, down at the petticoat lace waves, the delicate arches of the now empty gracecages, and the clouds piled up in layers of charcoal and bruises. After a few minutes she closed the metal shutters over the window. Under the surface of the water, she could be safe in the watery cocoon, but she had to remain in her lighthouse in her graceyard.

She went downstairs with her cup of tea and bolted the door. She drank quickly, and in her daydreams of being cocooned in the sea’s cool embrace, she looked down at the dregs of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. She hadn’t been paying attention to _not_ pay attention.

She wished she couldn’t understand it, or erase it from her mind, but the message was clear:

_A storm is coming._

**forecastle** \ ˈfȯr-ˌka-səl \ the crew's quarters of a ship, usually in a ship's bow

 **A** llison had stopped fearing storms the moment she became a dampling. It was as if the brass bell tied around her wrist held all her fears of the wind and the rain and defeated them with every song. The day she became a dampling—the day she became a Fox—she was not afraid of the sea; she _was_ the sea. All damplings had their own relationship with it, be it respect or wariness or a generous helping of lust, but Allison could see no difference between herself and the pull of the tides.

The Foxes had returned to their coracles after drinking in the forecastle of the _Foxhole_ that night. Booze-slurred and woozy they could barely manage to clip their canvas top shut, but eventually they settled into their bunks and strapped themselves in.

Allison was lying in her bunk, trying to sleep, when she heard the footsteps of Andrew or Aaron or Neil or all three of them, jumping from coracle to coracle and checking the canvas tops and chains with steady hands and focused eyes. For all Andrew claimed to only care about his family and his family alone, he sure did a lot to keep the rest of the Foxes alive.

“The sea does not need us,” Janie said when the ruckus outside had quietened. “It’s all the same to her whether we live to be a hundred or drown before we even take a breath. We’re parasites living off her spoils. No wonder she wants to devour us all.”

“Stop being so macabre,” Allison said.

“You’re a contortionist,” Dan added, “not some crazy witch of the sea.”

Janie didn’t dispute it. She probably thought being a sea witch was a good thing, despite their persecution across the islands. Allison didn’t exactly blame her; as a child Allison used to dream of being a sea witch, being able to control the sea and let it take her away from her home. The magic of it seemed like one huge adventure, not the danger most landlockers believed.

“I heard that sea witches have seashells for fingernails,” Janie said, almost thoughtfully.

Allison loosened her straps to lean out of her bunk and stare up at her. “That’s gross. I bet you think they have fish for brains too. All that slime to control the weather with.”

Janie dropped her pillow down onto Allison’s face, faster than Allison could bat it away. “Sea witches don’t control the weather,” Janie insisted. “The ocean does. If she wants a storm then there’s nothing we can do to stop her.”

“So we should give up and jump overboard?” Dan teased.

Allison picked up Janie’s pillow from the floor and pushed it under her own for a more luxurious night’s sleep. “Let the sea have us. At least she won’t snore like Dan does.”

Dan threw her pillow at Allison, and Allison kept that one too. The Foxes weren’t known to be smart, but until that moment Allison hadn’t thought them idiots, either.

“The sea will only take us when she wants us,” Janie said, in a tone far too serious for a conversation such as this. “I, for one, look forward to the embrace of the sea, when she decides that it’s time.” She paused, and Allison thought that meant they could finally sleep, but then Janie spoke up once more and Allison wasn’t sure if the words were meant for her, for Dan, or for the sea. “We all come from the sea,” Janie said, “and we will one day return.”

Allison thought this made sense. She had grown up on stories of the olden days, before the sea had flooded the earth, where the world had lots of land spreading out over miles and miles in every direction. Seas and lakes were called ‘bodies of water’. That made sense too: she had been born and raised a landlocker, but her body was made of water in the same way that Dan and Janie’s were, in the same way that even Neil’s fox was. They were the sea, and so they could trust the sea to keep them alive for another storm.

She wanted to tell Janie this, to tell her to stop worrying and let them sleep before the waves were too loud for quiet minds, but she couldn’t seem to move her mouth, her tongue too heavy with sleep. She supposed it didn’t matter; Janie had said her piece, and all they had to do was sleep until morning.

**swell** \ ˈswel \ a slow, regular movement of the sea in rolling waves that do not break

 **A** llison woke to yelling. It took her a moment to place the voice as Wymack’s; it had been a long time since he had performed as ringmaster, and his once booming voice had become more gruff and grouchy over the years since he stepped down.

Over the sound of his voice was a screeching that Allison’s half-sleeping mind took even longer to place. TIGHTEN THE CHAINS, came Wymack’s roar, followed by a clanking of the chains that tied the coracles to the _Foxhole._ HAUL IN THE SAILS, accompanied a thwack of canvas. They still had to keep some of the sail up so that they could maneuver the _Foxhole_ and not leave it entirely at the mercy of the wind and swell, but keeping the rest up would no doubt tear them to shreds. Wymack’s next instructions were almost lost to the wind, but they still had Dan bolting upright and Allison’s fingers scrabbling at the buckle of her bunk strap. As Allison slid out of her bunk, she heard Janie unfastening her own straps, and Allison felt how the _Foxhole_ rocked and dipped with each wave.

Allison’s eyes had not yet fully adjusted to the dim light, but she could just make out the shape of Dan reaching for the canvas overhead, knees bending and ankles rolling with the deep sway of the coracle in a way only a dampling could do. Allison staggered over to her. Her landlocker legs felt as flimsy as seaweed, but years as an aerialist meant she was strong enough to fight even the roughest swell.

Following Dan’s focus, she saw that the canvas top of their coracle had come unfastened. One fierce gust of wind had ripped it back on itself, and it now flapped like a panicked bird. Rain blew through the gap of the canvas, spraying Allison’s face with salt water and rendering her nightly skincare routine useless. Janie came to their side to help, and they fought to pull the canvas back into place.

They somehow managed to yank the canvas tight enough to clip it shut, and once it was secure, the three of them methodically checked the shelves lining the coracle’s curved sides. Straps and buckles kept everything in place, and though they could not see, they knew the shapes of their belongings well enough. Nothing was missing. Allison heard Dan tightening the straps anyway, and Allison and Janie were quick to follow suit.

Allison sighed a heavy breath of relief. Rainwater sloshed around her bare feet but there was nothing they could do about that now. They’d have to drain it all in the morning but for now they just had to survive the night.

Dan dropped down onto her bunk, likely as frozen and sodden from the rain as she was. Janie’s slippered feet squelched as she climbed up into her own bed.

“Do you think the others are okay?” Janie asked, sounding quite timid for someone who claimed they were ready for the sea to take her. Allison wondered how much she’d had to drink last night, and then wondered if Janie’s fear was only for the other Foxes but not for herself.

“They’ll be fine,” Dan said, with a surety she couldn’t promise. Allison shot her a look, but it went unnoticed in the dark. “Wymack would have called out for us if someone was in danger.”

Allison opened her mouth but felt something hit her knee and cut off her snort. She sent an invisible scowl to Dan, but corrected herself for Janie’s sake. “I’m just glad we shut the canvas,” she said in a feigned blasé tone. “Can you imagine what the saltwater would do to our hair?”

“You mean your hair,” Dan corrected.

“Of course I do,” Allison said. “At least one of us has to look nice for the crowds.”

Something else hit her from the bunk above her, and Allison threw the comb back at Janie with a laugh.

“I hope the others are okay,” Janie said again, quieter this time, almost in prayer. As if in answer, Allison felt the gentle scrape of the coracle beside them and knew that they were all safe for now. The girls’ coracle was technically the last in the chain, though it floated parallel to Matt and Seth’s coracle. Matt and Seth were fastened to Nicky and Aaron’s coracle and Kevin and Andrew’s, and the girls were fastened to Kevin and Andrew’s coracle too, along with Neil’s. Neil had his own coracle, because no one else wanted to share with a fox.

To anyone else, the coracles seemed to be tiny, fragile things, but every Fox knew that they had survived many a storm, bobbing up among the roughest waves, weathering the wind and salt-spray like the damplings themselves. The sea had never tried to claim one of them. Perhaps Janie was right; perhaps she didn’t bother with such small prey.

Allison shook herself. In the centre of a storm it was easy to believe the old superstitions; the gods of the deep, hungry for revenge; the world as flat as a sand dollar, with the seas tipping over the edge into nothingness. But strong winds and cold rain shouldn’t rid Allison of reason, so she ignored Janie’s infectious paranoia and laid back down on her bunk, hoping for sleep. Staying awake all night would only make her tired and make the repair work in the morning more tedious. She closed her eyes, and pictured the motion of the sea behind closed eyelids as a wave slapped against Matt and Seth’s coracle to their left. Cresting the wave, tugging on the taut chain, righting itself on the swell.

It wasn’t working. Despite the rock of the coracle, it wouldn’t rock her to sleep that night. She opened her eyes and rolled over onto her side. The boat tipped on the waves, and Allison saw a small circle of stars. It tipped back, and the stars were gone, replaced by blackness and the slosh of water. Allison understood what had happened before the words could form in her mind. A crack. There was a crack in the hull. Their coracle was sinking.

“Dan! Janie!” Allison’s fingers scrabbled at the buckles of her bunk strap once more. “The hull!”

She crawled over the floor of the coracle so she wouldn’t fall, and grabbed a lamp. She lit it and held it high. Dan and Janie were both out of bed; Dan reaching for scraps of oilcloth, and Janie reaching for the tin of tar. Allison held the lamp closer to the hull. The crack was small enough to patch, and Allison felt her lips twitch into a relieved smile. The fight with the storm was by no means over, but they had a starting point.

Yet Janie struggled to open the tin of tar; the lid was stuck. The oilcloth was too small. With each swell and push of the waves, the crack widened.

A thud on the top of the coracle startled Janie into a scream, and the canvas unfurled. Allison half expected a water-demon, a sea monster, a Raven, but it was only Seth. As he stumbled closer to the lamplight Allison could see that he’d brought more oilcloth and another tin of tar. Allison wanted to sag back onto the coracle floor with relief, but adrenaline pumped through her veins, keeping her upright. Her fingers trembled with it.

“You have a hole,” Seth said, though the half-hidden panic in his tone wasn’t hidden enough.

“Yeah, no shit,” Allison breathed.

“Where’s Matt?” Dan asked.

“Helping Nicky and Aaron strap down their canvas. He’ll stay with them until this shitstorm is over.”

Allison wanted to point out that it would have been safer for Seth to stay in his own coracle, but Seth had brought the much needed oilcloth and tar. She passed Janie the lamp and held out her hand for the oilcloth. When Seth handed it over, it was larger than the piece Dan found, but still smaller than what she had hoped for. But it was what they had. At least the tin of tar could be opened.

Allison unfolded it and tried to hold it to the hull but it wasn’t big enough to reach the edges. It was still not enough. It wouldn't stick.

All four of them were on their knees, but in that moment it seemed less so for balance. Whatever sea gods were out there, Allison hoped that they looked down on the _Foxhole_ and felt merciful. The water was now halfway up their thighs, salt-stinking and dark.

“Okay, we’re sinking,” Dan said, and it wasn’t the ringmaster’s voice that shone through. It was the voice of an interim captain. Wymack captained the _Foxhole_ but tonight Dan captained their coracle.

Allison didn’t know how she could be so calm. Panic blurred her thoughts, her legs were numb, and the light from the seal-fat lamp jerked against the sides of the coracle. If this were a performance, the clams would be screaming. Allison felt like screaming too. She felt one growing in her throat, claws sinking in and ready to fly. Her whole hands were shaking, and knowing that they shook was not enough to stop it.

“Allison, we’ll be okay,” Janie murmured over the shriek of the wind and rain, and Allison realised then that she’d been making sounds of distress, a low moan in the back of her throat, the same pitch and beat as the waves. She clamped her teeth shut and tried to be quiet. Fear was no help to anyone.

Janie’s gaze darted around the coracle, looking for something big enough to patch the gap. Allison’s eyes snapped back to the hull at the sound of the crack tearing open once more. It spread wide. Allison had always thought night sky beautiful, but in that moment each pinprick of light was an ugly, gaping wound. The coracle tipped into the swell of a wave, and water gushed through the gap, knocking the four of them onto their backs in the freezing water.

“We need to get out,” Dan said. “It’s going to sink and I’d rather not go down with it.”

No one replied. There was no possible argument; to get out was to live, and to stay was to die.

Seth pushed himself up onto his feet and braced his feet wide apart for balance. He reached over for the coil of rope that every coracle stored in case of a chain breakage, and the small knife Allison used to cut and trim fabric. He cut the rope into four pieces, and handed them out. Each piece was tied around their waists, with the remaining length looped over their necks so they wouldn’t trip. Allison made an aborted reach for the floats attached to the coracle wall, realising they wouldn’t make a difference in a sea this raw.

There was only one row of coracles between them and the main boat, and their ropes were long enough to reach across. Wymack and Abby were likely— _hopefully_ —still on the deck of the _Foxhole,_ but the stars would not be bright enough to let them see the coracle’s damage beneath the dark water and white froth.

Dan was the first to throw the end of her rope out of the coracle and into the night. Allison thought she heard it thud and splash into the sea, but it was likely her imagination in a storm this loud. Dan soon followed her rope, and Allison could only hope that she’d made it.

Allison turned around and Seth had the lamp in his hand. Janie stood beside him, a brave face for the roaring storm. “Go,” Seth said, and he waved the lamp at her, “I’ll pass it over. See if you can get Wymack or Abby’s attention.”

Allison nodded, and pulled herself up onto the edge of the coracle, punching her hand through a tear in the canvas and looping it around her arm as an extra hold. The coracle’s edge was slippery with seawater, and it jerked as she landed on her knees. She risked a look for Dan, and thought she could see her outline on Kevin and Andrew’s coracle.

She reached behind her for the lamp, and shaking fingers clasped around the metal handle, slightly warm from Seth’s hand. She raised it high and waved at Wymack and Abby, but she wasn’t sure if they had noticed. Now that Allison was out in the open, she could see how low their coracle sat in the water; how it was already beginning to drag down the others.

A bolt of lightning split open the sky, echoed by a rumble of thunder. She saw Abby’s face, turned in her direction, and Allison yelled out for her. Abby raised her arm in recognition, and Allison threw her the rope. Abby wasn’t the captain, but she’d been on the _Foxhole_ for just as long as Wymack had. One couldn’t be a dampling without being strong.

Allison held tight until Abby raised her arm again, and then she reached back for Seth or Janie’s hand. She wouldn’t be able to turn around and check, but she would find out who it was by the size of their hand. Seth’s were large and distorted with burn scars, whereas Janie’s were smaller and permanently cold. Allison supposed that in this weather, all hands would be frozen to the bone.

She reached out, but no hand reached out to meet her own. Her palm remained empty, save for the splattering of rain and saltwater.

“Seth! Janie!” she shouted, but the wind stole their names. Allison kicked her feet in the empty space of the coracle, trying to find him. “Stop trying to fix it! It’s too late!” There was no answer. She ducked her head inside but couldn’t see anything in the lamp’s dim glow. She pulled some slack on her rope and dropped down into the coracle. The hip-deep icy water knocked her breath out from her lungs.

She groped around in the dark but could only find the sides of the coracle, the shelves of belongings still strapped down flat. Nothing, nothing, but then:

A rope.

Allison grabbed onto the end of the rope with both hands and pulled. Hand over hand, eyes shut tight against the rain and the salt-spray, she pulled. She reached the end of the rope to find the start of something heavy but before she could reach out for it, something tugged at her waist. Allison spun around and saw Matt’s face hovering in the opening of the coracle. He was still wearing his durag, the silk soaked through from the rain.

“Help me,” Allison said, the words foreign on her tongue.

Matt nodded and jumped into the coracle, hissing a curse when he hit the water.

Allison reached back for the fabric and her hand clasped around a wrist. Whoever it was was unconscious. She hauled them out of the water, and the deadweight of the body identified them as Seth. She dragged herself backwards and slammed the base of her palm into the centre of Seth’s back. He lurched forward and coughed weakly.

“Come on, Seth,” she said through gritted teeth as Seth spluttered up saltwater.

“Where’s,” he gasped, “Janie?”

Allison looked for Matt. He’d waded through the water passed her and Seth, but Allison just made out the outline of him staggering backwards. As he came closer into the lamplight, she just made out a head of brown hair cradled in the crook of Matt’s neck as he carried her. “We’ve got her, she’s okay,” Allison said, wrapping her free arm around Seth’s waist. She held onto his rope for good measure, and hauled him out of the coracle.

She threw his rope to Abby. Beside her, Matt did the same with his own rope; Janie’s waist was bare. Allison held up the lamp to signal that they were ready, and soon Abby and Wymack were pulling the four of them over the coracles. Allison clung to Seth and him to her. Through the burn of saltwater in her eyes she saw the stars wheel above them as the sea continued to rage around them. They slid over the edge of Kevin and Andrew’s coracle and something caught her arm, scraping a long graze of skin from her forearm. A wave of saltwater spat onto the wound, but her hiss of pain went unheard.

They scrambled up onto the sodden deck of the _Foxhole,_ and were dragged further back toward the mast where they could hold onto ropes. Seth coughed and heaved beside her. Allison used all her remaining strength to roll him onto his front so he could spit up the sea. When she managed to get her own breath back, she squinted through the salt-spray to see Dan, Kevin and Andrew out on the coracles, faces sheened with rain. The ropes around their waists were tied to the mizzenmast.

Dan stood on the girl’s coracle, her feet barely inches from the surface of the water, and unhooked the chain attaching it to Neil’s coracle. She braced herself on the canvas as the girl’s coracle was pulled port, and then Dan jumped onto Matt and Seth’s as they bumped together. Kevin and Andrew, stood on their own coracle, pulled the chain attaching them to the girls’ sinking coracle, until Kevin could step forward and unhook the girls’ coracle entirely as Andrew held it steady with the chain.

They all watched as the girls’ coracle disappeared from view. She didn’t grieve the costumes and treasures they had collected over the years; if they hadn’t let their coracle go, it would have dragged them all down. They could buy more costumes, but they could never buy back a life.

Dan then attached the chain from Neil’s coracle into the empty eyebolt by her feet, bracing herself once again as Matt and Seth’s coracle was pulled starboard until it settled directly behind Kevin and Andrew’s coracle. Kevin reached out to help Dan cross over, while Andrew dropped the unattached chain into his coracle.

Allison held her breath until all three climbed up onto the deck of the _Foxhole_ where they were safe. It was only when Dan crawled up to her and touched her face, checking to see if she was okay, that the roar in Allison’s ears gave way to the sound of the crew around her.

“Janie! Janie!”

Allison lolled her head to the side to see that Seth had dragged himself over to Matt and Janie. Janie was no longer in Matt’s arms, but laid out on the deck. Her face was pale, and Allison wasn’t sure if she could blame that on her natural complexion. She wasn’t breathing. Allison looked over to Matt, who looked resigned even as his own breaths fell heavy with exhaustion. She didn’t want to look at Seth, but her eyes settled on him anyway.

“Janie, wake up,” he said, his voice cracked and jagged. “Wake up, you fucking pretzel. You said that you would jump after me if I fell into the sea. I didn’t fall! I’m okay. So you have to wake up. You said you wouldn’t let me die, so I’m not letting you die, either. Okay? Janie, _please.”_

Allison turned away and focused on the roll of the waves surrounding them so she wouldn’t have to watch Janie’s chest refuse to rise.

Janie had said that damplings were born from the sea and it was to the sea’s infinite embrace that they returned. Allison looked out to the roiling and thrashing ocean and wondered how long it would be until the sea claimed the small, cold body of the _Foxhole Circus’_ contortionist.

She supposed it would be however long it took for the _Foxhole_ to reach a gracekeeper.


	6. five

**sepia** \ ˈsē-pē-ə \ a brown melanin-containing pigment from the ink of cuttlefishes

 **R** enee couldn’t keep up with how many days were lost to the storm. Days and nights blurred into an argument of wind and rain, but neither let out and neither seemed to win. With the window shutters down and the door tightly locked, Renee had no concept of time passing by other than how often she needed to sleep. Though with the wind screaming outside, sleep was hard to come by.

Yesterday, or two days ago, or three, Renee had woken up from a dream where her lighthouse had broken off from its foundations and floated further and further away. She knew it wasn’t real when she woke up and truly considered the possibility, but a niggling part in her mind still imagined opening the door to snow-tipped mountains, jewell-coloured lakes, rainforests dripping with heat and noisy with life. They were all the things in the stories she hadn’t read as a child, but heard of later in life from people with much more fortunate upbringings.

These dreams still clung to her when she woke up that morning. Renee laid in bed for a few moments, adjusting to consciousness. Each second felt like a drawn out minute. Eventually she got out of bed and slipped into the bathroom on the same floor, and then went downstairs to the Resting room. The door was still bolted from however many days ago that the storm began, but when she unlocked it and stepped out onto the porch, the sky and sea were as calm as they always were. The only evidence of the storm was the dried salt beneath her feet. The deck would need to be scrubbed and cleaned before the next Resting party arrived. Renee then looked over to the graceyard, and remembered that the cages were all empty. She should have noticed earlier; it was so quiet without the graces. She could almost hear herself breathing, hear the blood thrumming in her veins. It was disquieting in every sense of the word.

So, to fill the cavity of her lighthouse, of her life, with noise, she began sorting the supplies she kept in the Resting room, but there was thankfully little to be cleaned downstairs too. Her food was kept upstairs and wouldn’t have been damaged by the seawater, but she sorted through that too just to keep busy.

Her food remained untouched by salt or water; the bread had gone stale, but that was to be expected. The couple eggs she had remaining seemed fine, and she still had a tin of peas, a bag of dried lentils and beans, and a pot of jam. Since the bread was only stale, rather than mouldy, it could be saved. She dampened a cloth with filtered water and wrapped it around the bread before putting it into the oven for a little while. She would have toast and a little jam for breakfast, and still have enough leftover for another two weeks if she rationed it. The storm had kept people away so far, and would continue doing so for a little while longer, but eventually more Resting parties would arrive with their new dead to mourn.

Not that she could be of any help to them. She had no newborn graces, and the cages would remain empty until the supply boat arrived. She hoped that the supply boat arrived before the Resting parties did; she hated to turn away grieving families.

Gracekeepers weren’t allowed to breed the graces themselves; it was a delicate process as each bird’s stated lifespan had to be accurate. It would be no good to tell a Resting party that they should grieve for two weeks, only for them to check back a fortnight later with their white mourning clothes packed away, and find the grace still alive.

Renee scraped the crumbs from her toast into the palm of her hand, and funnelled them into a small jar. She would save them for the next grace, or perhaps a fish that came to her porch.

As if summoned by the thought—and she hoped that wasn’t the case—she heard splashing outside her window. She leaned out to see it, but the kitchen was too high up to see anything in detail, and the fish was likely too small to see anyway. But she could still hear the splashing, the sound growing louder and louder until she realised that it was not a fish, but waves splashing against a hull.

She left the jar of breadcrumbs on the kitchen table as she made her way to the stairs. Once out on the porch, Renee shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked out to the sea. She couldn’t see a boat, and she even walked all around her porch to see if they were coming in from behind. But there was no smudge of darkness on the horizon, nothing but blue in every direction. The splashing continued, though, so Renee began to scrub down the deck. It wouldn’t do for a Resting party to arrive when her porch was in this state of disarray. She let the sound of her brush scrubbing back and forth along the metal slats drown out the unsteady splashing of the water. It was eerie, she thought, to know something was approaching, to _hear_ it approaching, and yet not see anything.

The boat didn’t come into view until the afternoon. When she first caught a glimpse of the shadow on the horizon, Renee had ducked back inside to change into her white dress, but it was still a while before the boat pulled up to the dock. It was one of the smaller boats that had stopped by Renee’s graceyard that year, but it was still rather large. It had two wind-scoured masts, though it carried only one small sail, and that seemed to make the boat pass through the water oddly. Yet as it turned to pass between the poles at the edge of her graceyard, she saw that it was not one ship at all.

Behind it trailed four coracles: a row of three, and one chained to follow behind. They were painted in various shades of orange, and patched with rectangles of rusting metal. Usually larger boats anchored at the dock at the edge of the graceyard, taking the rowing boat to Renee’s lighthouse, but this boat sluggishly sailed through the spiralling lines of empty gracecages, pushing them aside with a series of thuds and scrapes. Renee kept her expression calm, and she raised her hand in greeting.

From the porch she could make out a few of the figures on the ship. The captain standing behind the wheel was a gruff looking man, with flame tattoos Renee recognised as from North-West 2. Beside him stood a woman with dark skin and darker locs tumbling underneath a wide-brimmed hat. They both raised their hands too, albeit slower. Renee reasoned that they had likely just lost a crewmate, and an exuberant greeting was the least of their worries.

The boat bumped into the porch, and Renee heard the splash of the anchor as it dropped into the sea. Renee waited for the water to settle once more before raising her voice.

“Welcome,” she said. “My name is Renee Walker. I am the gracekeeper here. Please come ashore.”

‘Ashore’ was an odd term for a graceyard lighthouse, but it was what the council had instructed her to say. They probably believed that any house that stayed still was somehow on land, even though the foundations of the lighthouses were fully submerged and the lighthouses themselves were surrounded by water.

“Thank you,” the woman with the hat said, the first to climb down a rope ladder onto the porch. “I’m Dan Wilds, ringmaster of the _Foxhole Circus.”_ She moved her arm behind her as if to give the circus boat a pat, then seemed to think better of it. It was the sensible thing to do, Renee thought; the boat looked like it could fall apart with one good knock. A storm’s doing, no doubt. Dan then gestured to the gruff-looking man stepping onto the dock behind her. “This is our captain, David Wymack.”

Renee wasn’t entirely sure how that dynamic worked; usually captains were the first to land and the first to introduce themselves, and quartermasters—as that was what Renee assumed Dan was—kept silent until after the captain had made the crew’s introductions. But the captain seemed neither angered by insolence, nor the type to let his crew take advantage of him. Perhaps he truly didn’t care all that much for tradition.

David introduced the rest of his crew as they filed onto the porch. The porch wasn’t nearly big enough for all of them to space out, and Renee took note of how the crew grouped together, which ones each felt comfortable to be standing within another’s reach.

With the exception of the cook and doctor—Abby, a woman with brown skin and loosely braided dark hair—the first group off of the boat stood on the opposite side of Renee’s porch to Dan and David. There was Nicky, a glamour, whose clothes and face paints made up more colour in one being than Renee had seen in an entire year of Resting parties. His long black hair was loosely curled by nature, and he shared a similar colouring to Abby. He had an oddly excited and somewhat anxious expression, so Renee thought he would make a terrible gracekeeper.

A taller man with a small tattoo of a chess piece on his left cheekbone was introduced as Kevin, the trainer. He had flame tattoos around his forearms like the captain did, but other similarities between the two weren’t obvious. Despite his neater appearance, he had a much more disdainful expression. He didn’t pay much attention to Renee or her graceyard, instead favouring his attention to his boat. Renee couldn’t say she minded; it was a beautiful boat, albeit a little storm-battered.

One of the short white men was introduced as Aaron, whose occupation was the stagehand and another doctor. The other, Andrew, found his place in the circus as a knife-thrower. Renee kept her gaze on the second twin, the one with a blank expression and black fabric around his forearms, and assessed his threat level. Renee had been deemed ‘safe’ for seven years, but the dregs of precaution and wariness lingered.

When the third short man climbed down from the boat, Renee wondered if the reason the ship was on the smaller side was because so many of its crew were too. This man had curled auburn hair and bronzed skin freckled everywhere it wasn’t scarred. His colouring reminded Renee of the sepia-toned chart pinned to Renee’s kitchen wall. There was something else familiar about him too, though Renee couldn’t quite put her finger on it. When he stepped onto the porch and turned around, she noticed how his glacial blue eyes tracked Renee’s minute movements, meeting her gaze with equal wariness. _Like calls to like._ Renee made herself look away first. This was her home, her territory; they had the right to be cautious in the face of her familiarity.

Still, she wondered what this man did in the circus. His scars suggested something violent and dangerous, but unless he had been a performer as a child they were too faded for them to be a side effect of his act. Renee didn’t have to wonder for long.

“And this is Neil,” David started, “our fox boy.”

Renee supposed that with red hair and brown skin Neil did look a little fox-like. She had seen a fox only once before. The memory was scratched and worn: a black silk ceiling, two boys high up in the sky, and the sound of screams. That was her first and last fox.

She still felt Neil’s eyes on her until the next member of the crew stepped down onto the porch and her attention diverted. Matt was the strongman and sword swallower of the _Foxhole Circus,_ and his huge muscles could have been deemed threatening if not for the genuine smile across his face, tampered only with grief. His hair, short locs a few shades darker than his golden brown skin, had been gathered atop his head into a short bundle.

The next addition to Dan’s group was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman Renee had ever seen. Over deep brown shoulders she had long white braids ornate with jewels set in shiny metal cuffs. She looked like shooting stars plucked from a midnight sky, and Renee had to blink the gleam out of her eyes.

Unlike the others, neither David nor Dan introduced her; she introduced herself the moment her feet touched Renee’s porch. Renee didn’t feel quite right to be on a first name basis with such a woman; she felt like she needed to call her Ms Reynolds for at least a season before she earned the right. Nevertheless, _Allison_ (and Renee wanted to chant her name again and again to the sky, the stars, the sea) held her hand out to Renee.

“The _Foxhole Circus’_ favourite aerialist,” she said. Renee couldn’t decide whether her voice sounded like smoked honey or honeyed smoke. Either way, she didn’t think she ever wanted to listen to anything else for the rest of eternity. If she could somehow embed Allison’s voice into her own consciousness, she would.

Then one of the others scoffed, and Renee snapped back to reality.

“You’re our only aerialist,” Dan said dryly.

Allison’s eyes didn’t leave Renee’s, and Renee felt held in place—anchored, even—by such a gaze. “And you’re suggesting that if there were another, I would not still be your favourite?” Allison asked Dan.

She seemed so sure of her place among her crew, her confidence unmoveable. Renee almost couldn’t bear it; from anyone else, perhaps she wouldn’t be able to.

She missed Dan’s response, if there had been one. No one seemed to notice.

Allison finally looked away from Renee, only for her eyes to look over Renee’s shoulder and then up the expanse of the lighthouse. Renee knew what she could see; the pale grey of sun-bleached concrete, freshly washed windows suggesting some half-life inside, a cloudless sky. In the presence of so many people on her porch, her lighthouse seemed so lonely. Both Renee and Allison’s attention was diverted at the sound of another crew member climbing down the side of the _Foxhole._

“And this is Seth,” David said after a moment’s hesitancy. “Our fire-breather.”

Seth had an overgrown buzzcut of dusty brown hair, pale skin extensively freckled, and long-healed burns covering both arms. Renee imagined that the scarring didn’t stop at his shirt sleeves. When he climbed down to the porch he immediately stumbled. He looked like he was shaking, though in fear or fury, Renee wasn’t sure. Allison stepped away from Renee to help him find his footing. At the sight of his expression, Renee didn’t think the scarring was exclusively external, either. He seemed completely devoid of life, as if something had reached inside of his body, clasped clawed hands around his soul, and _pulled._

Renee had noted the blank expression on one of the twins—Andrew, she thought, but it was hard to keep so many new names in her head—but Seth’s _nothingness_ was one of neither nature nor nurture. It had been forced, and, Renee guessed, recently so.

Seth’s stumble seemed to have thrown David off his stride, but he tried to continue, pulling the scraps of his introductory speech into a performance. “All ten Foxes will…” He cleared his throat, and continued in a quieter voice at contrast with his gruff appearance. “All nine Foxes will…”

He trailed off, and looked to Dan to take over. Perhaps that was the unspoken dynamic between captain and ringmaster. Renee looked to Dan, awaiting the rest of David’s speech, but then remembered who she was and why people visited her. She was not a guest on their boat, she was not a landlocker with a ticket to a circus show. She was a gracekeeper, and they had come to her. Renee’s gaze strayed to the deck of the boat—what she could see over the side, anyway—and snagged on the familiar shape of a bundle wrapped in less familiar orange silks.

The others had noticed where her attention rested, and their expressions morphed from politeness to mourning.

“I know it’s not proper,” David said. “But the sail was all we had.”

“Mr. Wymack,” Renee said, silently hoping that she remembered his name correctly. “Please do not worry. I understand. But I must tell you, I fear I cannot help you with what you need.”

“We require only one thing of you,” David said, “and then we will be on our way. We can pay.”

Renee looked over at the faces of the circus folk, but it didn’t matter how many there were, or how much they mourned. She had no graces, and so there could be no Resting.

“I am sorry,” Renee said again. “I regret that I do not have the necessary equipment, and without a grace to mark the mourning I cannot—”

“Is that all?” Dan asked. “We don’t need a grace. We can mark our own mourning.”

Renee shook her head in the best imitation of solemnity. “The grace is a traditional part of the Resting. I would be wrong to perform the service without it.”

Her mimicry of sorrow ceased at the sound of a footstep on the metal slats of the porch. She looked over to the fire-breather, who had made a half-step forward. He was looking straight at Renee.

“Please.”

His voice had the power of a shout and the brokenness of a whisper. Renee wasn’t entirely certain whether he had been addressing herself or David.

It didn’t entirely matter; the word was enough to make up her mind.

 _Please._

When was the last time she had begged for help only for her plea to go unanswered? She wouldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t.

 _Please._

There was no grace, but who would know? Who would care? She was not sure whether the growing list of her crimes made each one larger or heavier, but this was a crime that would not bear weight on her soul.

 _Please._

She nodded. “Bring me the body and I will prepare for the Resting.”

Seth was the one to climb back into the boat, and he didn’t struggle with the weight of the body in his arms, and he pushed the strongman’s hand away when he offered to help. Renee should have averted her eyes, but instead she watched his descent back down to her porch. When his feet hit the metal slats again, he stumbled a little, but it wasn’t from carrying his dead crewmate. It was the stumble of a dampling touching land for the first time in months. Renee stepped aside to let the crew into the Resting room, and noted the few of them who seemed oddly at ease on a steady surface—Allison, the glamour, the strongman.

As the crew shuffled inside the Resting room—only slightly larger than the porch—Renee heard the faint chimes of the bells on their clothing. She wanted to tell them that they didn’t need to wear them in the graceyards, that they weren’t really on land, that her visitors were almost all damplings, that she didn’t care, but she didn’t think they would appreciate her drawing attention to it.

Renee remained silent as she followed the crew inside and shut the door behind her. The Resting room was well lit from the two tall windows on opposite ends of the room, but even in dimness she didn’t think she would have missed the sight of the bundle of silk on the table. The crew had made a semi circle around it, leaving a large gap for Renee. Most of the crew wore somber expressions, and only Andrew looked untouched by it all. She thought that out of all of the circus folk, he would make the best gracekeeper.

“There’s no polite way to put this,” David started. “We need the fabric back. After. It’s our mainsail and our big top. Without it, we can’t move on and we can’t perform. Can she be put in the water without…” He trailed off.

“I understand,” Renee said, not wanting him to stew in it. “I will provide fabric for the Resting and return your silks.” David nodded once, short and firm. “What was her name?”

It was Seth who answered. “Janie. Her name was Janie Smalls.”

“Are there any customs I should follow?”

“She was from South-East 2, but she wasn’t religious.” Seth chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before adding, “Rest her well.”

Renee inclined her head. She Rested all dead damplings well, she thought, but she wasn't offended. They all wanted the best for their lost ones. She walked over to the window and stood there with her back to the others—the part of her performance that had taken the longest to master—as she gave the crew a few moments to say goodbye to Janie. She heard the boats outside bumping together softly, a gentle thud and quiet scrape. She turned around once more when the footfall behind her silenced.

None of the crew members were crying, and Renee admonished herself for that brief moment of relief that passed her by. She should be more empathetic. To make up for it, she wanted to say something comforting and kind, to assure the crew that the Resting would be noble and explain to them that the grieving would soon be over. She knew the words; they were well practiced, a script memorised from years of use.

They did not come.

Instead she said, “Do not feel ashamed that you are still alive.”

No one startled at the words, few even looked up. Only Seth met her gaze, and his expression was furious. She hadn’t comforted him, and she hadn't been kind. She held his eyes. She had meant what she said, and she wouldn’t regret her words. The people in the Resting room had survived a storm, and they shouldn’t be ashamed by that. Damplings often talked about the sea claiming them when their time was over, or when she demanded a sacrifice on a flight of fancy, but Renee knew better. The sea was just the sea. She didn’t give and she didn’t take. The bodies of dead damplings didn’t stop or start the storms, they only rested along the ocean floors where gracekeepers had left them.

These circus folk couldn’t blame themselves for their loss any more than they could blame the sea. Janie had died, and their feelings on the matter wouldn’t change that. They should grieve, they should mourn, they should remember, but it wouldn’t do to feel shamed by their survival of something they had no hand in.

Seth held Renee’s gaze as the rest of the crew spilled outside one-by-one. He stayed beside Janie’s body for a few moments longer, before tearing his eyes away and leaving the Resting room without another glance at either of them. Renee closed the door behind him, careful not to step on the threshold, and began to set the needles and perfumed waters on the table beside Janie’s body. She looked at the closed door. She didn’t want to feel nothing as she tipped the body into the water. She would think of Stephanie, and the crew would think of Janie, and the words of the Resting would not be meaningless this time. She took a breath, and pulled off her gloves. It wasn’t a graceful slide of material against skin. She had to tug at each finger tip one at a time, and then grasp onto the middle fingertip and pull. She set her gloves down beside the glass bottle of incense water. In the light of the day, spilling in through the twin windows, the black ink of her tattoos were stark against her light brown skin, untouched by the sun.

This wasn’t the first time Renee had bared herself for a Resting, but it did not happen often. She felt tethered to it, to the performance, to the body, to the crew waiting outside. She had taken off the last layer of her mask, and for that moment, while the Resting room door remained closed, they would all be connected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ly's piece from this chapter can be found [here](https://adverbialstarlight.tumblr.com/post/628898912336576512/my-second-and-final-piece-for-wishboneteas-fic)!


	7. six

**caulk** \ ˈkȯk \ to stop up and make tight against leakage

 **A** llison was lucky in that most of the people she cared about were still alive. It wasn’t like that for most landlockers, nevermind damplings. Few people knew their parents; most died while they were young, raised on the ships their parents worked on or by the neighbours their parents lived next to. As far as she was aware, Allison’s parents were still alive, but she supposed they didn’t really fit into the ‘people she cared about’ category anyway.

It meant that this would be the first time Allison had attended a Resting. Although she didn’t quite know what to expect, she didn’t have much time to wonder over it anyway; in the days and nights since the storm, Allison and Dan had stayed in Neil’s coracle, while Neil and his fox moved in with Andrew and Kevin. She supposed that this was going to be a permanent fixture, since it was unlikely they’d manage to find another coracle at a price Wymack could justify. They were Foxes; they made do with what they had and made do with what they didn’t.

The _Foxhole_ had remained docked at the graceyard for the evening, and while the others caulked the hull, fixing what the storm had broken, Allison’s main responsibility lay with babysitting Seth. Allison was still trying to navigate her own emotional state, but having something to do, someone to look after, gave her something to focus on. She’d spent most of last night’s dinner forcing him to eat the cockle and sea-kelp stew. Allison preferred landlocker food to that of damplings, but without their big top the Foxes hadn’t been able to perform since before Janie died, and with only one sail their progress had been slow. She supposed that progress through the doldrums would always be slow.

The crew gathered on the porch at daybreak, and Allison felt a little disorientated to be surrounded by sea and yet be standing on something that didn’t move with the steady flow of water. Even though the lighthouse wasn’t really land, it still unsettled her. The others were in the same state of imbalance, visibly trying to control the shakes in their legs and the judders in their knees.

She had never seen the crew looking so washed out before. Allison had made a white shirt out of old bedsheets a few months ago, and had lent it to Neil for his funeral dance. It was a good thing, too, since most of her and Dan’s clothes were now at the bottom of the sea. The fake blood stains had been easy to wash out, but Allison didn’t know whether it was disrespectful to wear it to a Resting service. But it was the lightest-coloured fabric she still owned so it would have to do. It wasn’t like the gracekeeper—Renee, Allison remembered—knew that it had been a part of Neil’s act.

She wondered what Renee would wear. Yesterday she had looked a lot more put together than the ragtag appearances the Foxes sported now. Allison remembered a dress so white it was almost blinding, and she was almost glad that it was so early in the day; if she came out now in full sunlight, Allison wouldn’t have been able to look at her.

And looking at her was something that Allison wanted to do for a very long time.

There had been something unsettling about Renee. Part of it was suspecting some discomfort with what she was wearing. Allison had wondered whether it was just a scratchy material or too tightly fitted, but she also wondered whether it was more about the fact that it was a dress. Allison liked dresses and skirts, she liked the shapes they made around her body and she liked how eyes clung to her curves as much as the material did. But with dark hair sheared short, surprisingly heavy boots, and a face clear of any paints, Allison wondered if Renee were the sort of woman more comfortable in trousers.

After the Foxes had left Janie’s body in the Resting room of the lighthouse, they had gathered in the crew’s quarters of the _Foxhole_ and had drank, and drank, and drank. Allison had stayed clear-headed for Seth’s sake, but she’d also taken the opportunity of loose lips to ask the others what they knew of gracekeepers. She had learned that they had to abide by binary genders as much as the landlockers did, and that, for the most part, was because the gracekeepers _were_ landlockers. It wasn’t like there were any ruling council over the damplings to send them away from their boats and into the graceyards. While the landlockers had their governments and island councils, damplings had the _Brethren Court._ They regulated themselves.

Allison had quickly found out that becoming a gracekeeper was something of a punishment for landlockers, and Matt and Kevin had gotten into an argument about what a person had to do to deserve it. Matt, who had lived on an island where someone had been arrested and taken to the graceyards, argued that it was usually reserved for crimes against other landlockers. Kevin believed that it had to be some form of attack against the government or the military. Allison voiced her agreement with Matt, partly because he had more experience on the matter, but mostly because vocally disagreeing with Kevin was a favoured pastime among the Foxes.

But no matter how many questions she asked, no one had mentioned gracekeepers wearing gloves.

Allison remembered the gloves from when Renee greeted the Foxes on her porch the day before. She had still been wearing them when she closed the door of the Resting room, separating Janie from the rest of her crew. There was something mysterious about it. Mystical, even. It was the kind of secret that Allison couldn’t help but imagine as some kind of performance. She could easily picture Renee on the stage of the _Foxhole Circus,_ doing somersaults on the back of a horse with its jewelled reins between her teeth. Or perhaps she would be in the air with Allison, on her own set of white silks looped over one of the masts. Or, Allison wondered, maybe she would perform a Resting.

She didn’t know _how_ to picture this, having never seen a Resting before, but she could change that, now. All she had to do was wait with the rest of her crew for Renee to come out of her lighthouse and meet them on the porch.

They didn’t need to wait long. Allison had been fiddling with the sleeve of her shirt and the sound of a door unlocking from the inside made her startle and look up. Renee stood in the doorway, though she didn’t look at any of the crew just yet. She made her way across her porch, and Allison noted how steady her steps were. A landlocker, then. Allison wondered how Renee felt about it, whether she felt like becoming a gracekeeper was a punishment for whatever it was that she did, or whether Renee was a rarer kind, feeling more at home on the sea. Renee didn’t acknowledge the crew until she stopped beside the tin rowing boat docked at the other side of her porch.

“There isn’t enough room in the boat for all of you,” Renee said, sounding sorrowful. Allison didn’t see the point in it; Renee hadn’t known Janie, and she didn’t know the Foxes, so what use was sorrow from her? She dismissed it as what gracekeepers were supposed to do. Perhaps normal people appreciated the sympathy. To a Fox it felt like pity.

The question of _which of you would most need to attend the Resting_ went unspoken. Allison made a silent assessment of her crew. Who would most need to say goodbye to Janie? Seth, obviously. Dan and herself, since Janie had been their coracle-mate for over a year, though Allison found her own reaction to Janie’s death… unsurprised. Damplings died all the time, and Janie wasn’t exactly a close friend, but she felt… nothing. Shouldn’t she be more upset? She hadn’t even cried. She wondered if Dan had; she acted so strong for her crew, but Allison knew that she needed time to comfort herself with Allison and Matt as companions to her grief. Perhaps that was why Allison wasn’t grieving in the way she expected to; perhaps she was simply staying strong for Dan and Seth. It felt nicer than the thought that she was truly unfazed.

It was Dan who stepped forward first, and tilted her head to Allison. Allison nodded. She wrapped her arm around Seth’s waist and nudged him forward. He hadn’t looked up from the metal slats of the lighthouse porch, but he allowed her to direct him to the rowing boat. She and Seth sat side by side at one end of the boat, with Dan and Wymack on the bench on the other side. Renee sat alone on the bench in the middle, her hands resting on the oars and a gracecage between her feet. Inside lay a single feather. Allison knew that it would be from a different grace, one that had already been claimed by a different Resting party, but she appreciated the sentiment. They would need something to focus on.

The lines of gracecages were set in a spiraling pattern, circling around the lighthouse like hurricane winds around the eye of the storm. Renee rowed them around to the other side of the lighthouse, and the Foxes walked around the loop of the porch to keep the rowing boat within their sights. Renee didn’t row far out, though, and stopped beside one of the nearer cages. She had already put Janie into the sea, and doing it so close to the dock must have been for the crew’s benefit. Allison supposed that for other Restings, perhaps it was only the family members who cared: the widows, the children, the friends. The crews on the bigger ships were so numerous that they wouldn’t all know one another as the Foxes did. As the Foxes _should._ Perhaps Allison was better suited for the uncaring, unattached crews of the bigger ships. She shook her head minutely, forcing those thoughts away. She had to focus on the Resting, on Janie, on Seth.

“Let us think now of Janie Smalls,” Renee said, “and of those who will mourn her.”

Her voice was quiet, calm, but held enough power to silence an entire big top. It was the complete opposite of Dan’s crowd-pleasing gusto, but just as pleasant to listen to. There was an edge to it, though, she thought. A strange tint to it as if it hid what lay beneath, like the surface of water under sunlight, disceptibly warm to hide the icy cold depths beneath. Allison preferred the depths. She liked the secrets the sea held, the lost worlds, the untold stories. The surface of the water was just that; the surface. And it was as bland as it was untrue.

Renee seemed to go into some sort of trance as she spoke the words, and it was one Allison knew well; under the spotlights and the eyes of the audience, the rest of the world seemed to melt away. It was a clarity that could rarely be granted off the stage. _This_ was Renee’s stage. The sun was her spotlight, and though her audience was minimal, Renee held their attention as any trained performer could. Renee tilted her head to the sky, an act of servitude to the sun, the sea, the sky. Allison could never know that sort of submission, how could she? She didn’t have to claw her way to survival in the way the other Foxes had, but she’d certainly had to fight. She’d been granted life and wealth, but not herself. Her entire future had been set out the moment she had been born. She had been the pride of her family, the good luck charm for her neighbours, the centrepiece of every procession.

She had fought it every step of the way. She wasn’t something to put on a pedestal, she had done nothing to deserve their love. They didn’t love her, not really. They didn’t _know_ her. They hadn’t even cared enough to try. She wasn’t made to be known, she had been made to mark the end of the summer, the embodiment of renewal and rebirth. _Rebirth._ Allison wanted to scoff. Rebirth sounded like it was something to do with her, something with a choice. Her flesh and blood and been declared sacred without her consent. She couldn’t make a choice from an unasked question.

Gracekeepers were supposed to be holy, Nicky had said. By this point in the night, Allison had started to drink with her crew, too. Had he said that they were virgins? Allison had been expected to be, and with the whole island knowing everyone’s business it wasn’t like she could sneak away with someone for a few hours. She wondered if it had been the same for Renee’s home island.

She focused on Renee, trying to imagine her kisses on a stranger’s mouth. It was easier when she tried to look past the veneer, past the white dress and the fake flowers. She pictured her short black hair a little less combed and a little more wind-wild, in a loose fitted shirt like the one Allison wore now. Would she roll her sleeves up, revealing the muscles that bunched with every pull of the oars as she pushed the rowing boat to the gracecages? Or would she wear even longer sleeves, hiding her hands in them like she tried to with those gloves. Was this what she looked like when she was not a gracekeeper? Did gracekeepers ever stop being gracekeepers? Did they ever return to their islands, or did they simply die out here, alone in their lighthouses, only for another gracekeeper to Rest them. Were their families told?

Allison pressed her feet hard against the metal base of the rowing boat, and Seth shifted in his seat beside her. She forced herself to concentrate, not on the gracekeeper, but on the service. Janie’s service. How could she let her mind wander to hypothetical deaths when an actual one had just occurred? Would Janie hate her, if she knew?

She shut her eyes, took Seth’s hand, and forced herself to hear Renee’s words without fixating on her voice. She felt the warped skin of Seth’s flesh beneath her fingertips so she didn’t drift and imagine the soft, supple skin of someone else. She didn’t let herself look at the gracekeeper, instead keeping her eyes on the feather as Renee’s hands carried it from one cage to another.

The feather settled delicately on the floor of its new cage, unmoving in the windless air. Allison could understand that. She supposed that with such gentle hands to put you there, you could find a home anywhere.

**keel** \ ˈkēl \ the underside of a ship which becomes covered in barnacles after sailing the seas

 **A** llison couldn’t say what it was that kept her up that night. Perhaps it was the smell of Neil’s fox that permeated the coracle she and Dan had moved into, or maybe because the bedding wasn’t quite as soft as what Allison was used to. Maybe the sea just felt differently to sleep on in the doldrums. She should have been able to sleep easy; she was certainly exhausted enough. After Janie’s Resting they had spent the rest of the day repairing the _Foxhole_ by the light of the seal-fat lamps. The original plan had been to set sail that afternoon and postpone the repairs until they reached the next island, but standing on the porch of Renee’s lighthouse, the damage from the storm was phenomenal. It was a miracle they had made it to the doldrums at all.

Renee had allowed them to remain anchored beside her lighthouse while they repaired the _Foxhole,_ but had politely declined their invitation to dinner. Allison wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t like she had offers of better company. She considered the chances of Renee being like any other landlocker, doing her best to stay out of dampling affairs and just doing a better job at hiding her disgust. Did she think they wanted to be there? The lighthouses were surrounded by sea, but technically so were the islands. Allison hated being on land but she knew that the sea would always consume it. If she found herself trapped all she had to do was wait and she would eventually return to the waters. Maybe she would stay in Renee’s lighthouse and wait for the sea to consume that, too.

Maybe that was what she was waiting for now. Waiting for sleep to drown her thoughts. It wasn't working. She could twist and turn in her bunk and match her breathing to Dan’s, but she would still lie there, wide awake, treading the waters of consciousness.

She figured if she was going to be awake anyway, she might as well make use of it. She slipped out of her bunk—a quieter affair since she had no buckles to unstrap considering the flat water of the doldrums—and unclipped the edge of the canvas. She pulled herself up onto the edge, and held herself steady as the coracle bobbed with unbalanced weight.

While the _Foxhole_ had been hooked into another eye-bolt on the lighthouse, the coracles had been repositioned to trail behind the main boat in one snaking chain. Allison and Dan’s coracle was the third from the main boat, and floated among the closest of the gracecages, thankfully on the other side from where Janie had been put in the sea. Even in the darkness of the night the moonlight was bright enough to reflect off the metal bars of the cages, lighting the sea in ribbons of silver. It was eerie, but Allison had always been able to see beauty in unexpected, painful things. She remembered Seth’s lanterns and Neil’s funeral dance, and imagined the same acts performed in a graceyard at twilight. Perhaps Wymack could bargain a performance as payment for Janie’s Resting, rather than the food and quartz they had been reluctant to part with earlier that day. She could easily picture it; each coracle could become another stage, chained into a circle around the lighthouse so that Renee had to walk the entire loop of the porch to see each act.

Allison looked out to the porch but she didn’t see Renee. It was empty save for the tin rowing boat. Her gaze followed the length of the lighthouse, having to lean back to see its full height, to see any of the lights were on. The lighthouse tapered a little at the top, and a thin balcony hung parallel to an open window. She leaned further back to try and see over the edge, hooking her knees over the side of the coracle so she could lean back even further. It was then that she noticed that there was someone on the balcony. She startled, losing her grip and falling back onto the canvas top. A couple of her braids smacked her in the face, and her skin stung where the beads of copper struck her face. Her landing was quiet enough to not wake Dan, but still embarrassingly obvious that she had fallen.

Allison brushed the braids off her face and peered up at the balcony as if this was her intention all along. The person on the balcony was obviously the gracekeeper, though her short black hair was left uncombed and ruffled from either sleep or the wind. She wore a dark grey shirt, loosely fitted and tucked into what Allison thought were white trousers, but could have been shorts since she couldn’t see the length of them from this distance.

There was no point in slipping back into the boat; Renee had obviously seen her. Renee raised her hand in greeting, and in the moonlight Allison could see her gloves. Allison wondered why she was wearing them still. Surely she was not expecting visitors? Did she sleep in them? The state of her hands must be disgusting if she never let her skin breathe. Why did she feel the need to wear her gloves so often? Was she hiding something? Did she have some sort of disfigurement? Surely she had seen the expansive scars gracing Seth and Neil’s skin, if not the smaller scars littering the rest of the crew from their time in the circus. Why did she think they would judge her for something they knew too? Maybe she was more like the Monster, who used black fabric wrappings to hide what Allison presumed were scars, but could have been more monstrous, like scales.

Allison raised her hand in return, hoping that would be enough to settle her musings.

It didn’t.

She got to her feet and made her way across the coracles. She didn’t know whether Renee was watching her, but she felt the anticipation of her gaze all the same. When she reached the _Foxhole,_ she climbed up onto the deck and made her way to the main mast. She glanced over at the balcony again, now almost directly above her, and saw that Renee had moved to the edge, folding her arms over the railing and peering down at her in silence. Allison considered saying something, but any sound loud enough to carry to Renee would likely wake Wymack or Abby and she didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing.

She had no idea what she was doing.

So she didn’t say anything, and looked away from Renee’s moonlit face as she focused on the main mast. As an aerialist, she was used to climbing vertically, but the wood was smooth and she couldn’t grip onto it as well as she could her silks. Still, she was used to climbing up to the crow’s nest. She used the rope wrapped around the mast as hand and footholds as she pulled herself up. When Allison reached up, she realised that she had forgotten to tie on her bell. She considered pulling her sleeves down over her arms so Renee would assume it was just hidden from view, but then figured that with the humidity of the doldrums she would know Allison was hiding something under her shirt. Maybe she would assume it was scars. When Allison pulled the cloth of her shirt over her forearm, though, she hissed at the sharp sting from her cut. Abby had stitched up the cut from when she had scraped her arm over the coracles during the storm, and Aaron had made some sort of poultice that smelled _disgusting_ but apparently prevented it getting infected. But no amount of foul smelling herbs speeded up however long it took skin to knit itself back together.

Renee had watched her ascend, and had now stepped back a little to give Allison room to climb over the railing. Allison glanced down at the _Foxhole,_ at the coracles, wondering what the hell she was doing, but didn’t come to any conclusion. She walked the length of the yard and clasped onto the railing when it came into reach. Her feet hit the metal slats of the balcony.

“Hello,” Renee said, still a little further away than before even though Allison hadn’t needed that much room to climb over the wrought iron railing. Perhaps she just wanted to be out of arm’s reach. Allison was familiar enough with that from exposure to Neil and the twins.

“Hi,” Allison said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“It’s Allison, isn’t it?” she asked, and then looked away quickly. “Sorry, I should have pretended to have forgotten. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine, Renee,” Allison said, with emphasis on her name. She saw Renee’s lips twitch minutely but better still was that Renee met her eyes once more. Her eyes were dark, and even in yesterday’s midday sun they had been fathomless pools. Allison let herself look, refusing to shy from her gaze. She wasn’t afraid of gracekeepers and what they stood for, and she wasn’t afraid of her own attraction to Renee. What would be the point? She knew that there was little point in mentioning it; the _Foxhole_ would sail north in the morning, but she knew an attractive woman when she saw one.

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” Renee asked, stirring Allison from her thoughts.

Allison blinked. “Tea?”

Renee hummed. “I’m afraid I don’t have many flavours to offer, but the water won’t take long to boil.”

She sounded like she was trying to justify her offer, but Allison didn’t mind. She hadn’t had tea in a long time. No one in the _Foxhole Circus_ particularly cared for it. She nodded, and Renee nodded, and Allison followed her around the loop of the balcony to the door.

The room Allison followed Renee into must have the kitchen. There were two lamps burning on opposite sides of the room, but they didn’t smell like seal-fat. The walls inside were the same shade of grey of the outside, the only decoration to them was a single chart, printed on beige paper and drawn with sepia ink. Allison didn’t recognise what land it mapped, but likely a cluster of oddly shaped islands. She heard Renee filling up a kettle with filtered water, and she let her go about making the tea while Allison stepped up to the chart for closer inspection.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Renee said from behind her. Allison turned around and Renee held out a steaming cup, a bowl in her other hand. Allison took the cup. It was uncomfortably humid, but drinking something equally hot would trick her body into cooling down. A moment’s discomfort was worth it if she would stop feeling sweat trickle down her back and between her breasts. She wondered how Renee coped, but then that line of thought had her thinking about Renee’s breasts and she started talking so she would stop thinking.

“Where did you get it?”

“I was given it,” Renee said, oblivious to Allison’s musings or—if she could mind read—politely ignoring them. “It was payment for a Resting.”

“So you’re saying that we could have given you a drawing instead of our food?”

Renee’s lips twitched again, though she was visibly trying to contain her smile. Allison wanted to draw it out. It was mirthful, and no doubt at her own expense, but the idea of some holy gracekeeper, hidden away in their pillars of isolation, finding amusement in tricking a circus boat… it made Allison want to laugh. She wanted to see Renee laugh too, even if it was at her rather than with her.

“You did not offer a drawing,” Renee said, her mouth back into that demure line. “But the cockle and kelp stew was lovely.”

Allison barked out a laugh. “Bitch.”

Renee’s eyes widened and her shoulders tensed. “I’m so sorry. I should be better than this. I should—”

“Relax,” Allison said, interrupting her. “I’m just teasing you.”

Renee stopped talking and she didn’t try to apologise again, but Allison noted a slight flush to her cheeks. She didn’t blush as loudly as some of the landlocker girls Allison had spent time with, but when Renee blushed it was like the last few rays of sunlight over a mirrored sea, all deep oranges and rich pinks. It was beautiful.

She diverted the conversation back to the chart. “Where is this?”

“Hm?” Renee asked, then followed Allison’s head tilt to the chart. “Oh. Everywhere, I think.”

“What?” Allison looked at the chart again, wondering if she had misread it. There was far too much land for that to be the whole world.

Renee hummed. “I used to think it was just an archipelago, but now I think it’s just old.” She raised her hand and traced out a line of upside down ‘V’ shapes with her fingertip. “See these? If you ignore the rest of the land and only keep these lines, they follow the patterns of the archipelagos now.”

It took Allison a moment to see it, but she could pin-point the locations of the islands she was familiar with—though it was difficult to name them in numerical order without the lines of trading routes and ocean currents. “This was the world before the sea flooded the land.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Think of how much life there was.”

Was it beautiful? Land didn’t have nearly as many species as the sea did. Land was a barren wasteland in comparison. Not even her home island could compete with it, and North-West 7 had one of the strongest agricultural economies across the archipelagos.

But perhaps that was just Allison’s perspective on what the land was like _now._ Maybe this long ago, life on land had been beautiful. But the land that this cartographer had mapped no longer existed. The contours of this earth, the lines denoting when one country became another, the different shades of brown to show kingship: all of it had drowned. It had sunk into the sea like Janie’s body had been, like every dead dampling. She didn’t know how to mourn a world she had never seen. Was she supposed to? Maybe she was too disconnected to begin to understand it.

“I’ve never seen a chart like this,” Allison said instead of answering.

Renee hummed again. “There isn’t much land left to map now.”

“There are still plenty of other charts, though,” Allison said. “Sea roads, trading routes, the archipelagos. Even when you rely on the constellations for navigation you still need charts.” She paused and then grimaced. “And now I sound like Kevin. Great.” She felt a little dirty just thinking about it, but then Renee laughed and it all seemed worth it.

“You must have travelled a lot in your life,” Renee said. “Is there anywhere you haven’t been?”

Allison thought about it for a moment. “The far north. Our sails would freeze and shatter.”

Renee hummed. “I can’t imagine many people have managed to go and come back, then.”

“I’ve heard stories, though,” Allison said. “If you travel far enough there are chunks of ice as high as towers, higher than the mast of the biggest ship you’ve ever seen. And the sound they make… it cracks and groans like it’s got something inside, something angry and roaring to get out.”

Allison retold the ridiculous stories she’d heard over the years, and they got more and more extravagant as Renee’s eyes brightened in amusement. Allison knew that Renee didn’t believe her; Renee probably knew that Allison didn’t believe them either, but still the stories got wilder with every detail. The other Foxes started to appear in the tall tales, and soon Renee started to add in her own details, as if she had been there, too.

“Whole ships can get encased inside the ice,” Allison said, “squeezed flat between two bergs, and then years later they reappear. The crew are all ghosts, and when they’re set free they can come onto your boat and haunt you forever. You go mad with the light and the sound and the frozen fingers of the ghosts tapping at your eyes.”

Renee laughed at that, and Allison wished she could capture the sound in a glass bottle. “Flat ghosts.”

Allison blinked. “What?”

“You said that the boats get flattened in the ice, so the ghosts must be flat too.”

Allison blinked again, and then started to laugh. She couldn’t help but imagine the _Foxhole_ overrun with two-dimensional pale ghosts, horrifying until they turned, revealing themselves to be as thin as fried seaweed. Renee joined in, though whether she was laughing at the same musings or just because Allison was laughing, Allison didn’t know. She didn’t mind. She was proud to make Renee laugh. She wanted to do it again and again and again.

Eventually they both calmed down and Renee took a sip of her tea. Allison had momentarily forgotten about the cup in her hands. She took a sip, and was pleasantly surprised when the steam smelled of rose when she brought the cup to her face. When she sipped at it, it had lost most of its heat while they had been examining Renee’s chart, so it wasn’t too hot to drink quickly.

“Do you have any more of this?” Allison asked, eyeing the wet rose leaves at the base of her cup. “Not the tea, just the rose leaves.”

“Why?” Renee asked, and Allison noted a new sharpness to her tone. She looked up, and Renee’s dark eyes were cold. It was startling, but Allison found herself unable to look away. She didn’t feel trapped by it, as such, but as if she were under some kind of spotlight, as if she were high up her silks, a lone performer to a crowd of enthralled clams.

“Roses have moisturising properties without feeling too heavy or oily,” she explained. “It’s good for hair like mine.”

“Oh,” Renee said, and Allison raised an eyebrow at the relief in her voice. Renee caught her look but shook her head in a silent ‘nevermind’ signal. Allison did mind, she wanted to hear Renee’s thoughts and questions, but she decided not to pry.

Renee headed further into her kitchen and grabbed a glass jar from one of the shelves. When she came back, Renee pressed the jar into Allison’s hand. Allison held up the glass to eye level. She figured that if she brewed them again, she would have enough to last a few months if she, Dan, Matt—and Neil, if he finally listened to her—used it a couple times a week. She was already looking forward to it. Earlier that year, the military had amped up the pressure on the southern archipelagos so that several islands had sent the _Foxhole Circus_ away without a performance. Supplies had run out, and no one was willing to waste finite resources on hair care. Allison never wanted to use kelp on her scalp ever again. The smell had been _awful._

“I’m sorry I don’t have more,” Renee said. “The supply boat is late so this is all I have for now…” She trailed off.

Allison wondered how it was that someone without innate politeness tried so hard to pretend otherwise. Kindness didn’t seem to come naturally to Renee, but it felt like she had something to prove. To whom, Allison didn’t know.

“I can’t pay you,” Allison said.

Renee shook her head. “I’m not asking you to. It’s a gift.”

“Then it’s enough. Thank you.” Allison smiled. “Dan’s going to freak. She’s allergic to avocado and that’s all we’ve come across on the islands for the past month.” At Renee’s blank expression, she added, “The ringmaster. Black, shorter than me, dreads.”

“Yes, I remember her now,” Renee said.

Allison didn’t point out that Renee needed prompting to recall the face of the crew member who spoke the most before Janie’s Resting, when she remembered Allison’s name with ease. Instead she let satisfaction pool in her gut, and bit back a smug smile.

She wondered if that was to be it. Renee had invited her in for tea, and she had drunk Renee’s tea. Renee had offered she take some back to the _Foxhole_ with her, and she would. Was that her cue to leave?

Renee must have caught her looking at the window, but she held her bowl up to her lips as if it still contained hot tea. “How is your boat?”

“We repaired what we could from the ocean,” Allison said. “We’ll still have to look at the keel when we reach the next island, but we’ll be fine to leave in the morning.”

Renee hummed. “No one stays here for long, though the wind makes it seem otherwise.” She sounded almost sad about that, and Allison could understand why. It was lonely out here, and Allison had only been here a day. She couldn’t imagine an entire life feeling this isolated. “We can’t,” Allison said. “If we want to eat, we have to work. This far from the islands, we’ll go through our supplies in no time. This place it’s…” She trailed off, thinking of the calm waters and the lack of wind. “I’m restless. This place feels frozen in time. I prefer to be at sea.”

Renee tilted her head into a slow nod, and then looked out to the window. Allison followed her gaze, watching the horizon. The sun would rise soon. “It’s hard to live out here for long. It’s not safe.” Renee wasn’t looking at Allison as she spoke, instead keeping her gaze on the sea. Then she blinked, as if she had gone from herself for a moment and now landed firmly in her skin. She looked a little shaken.

Allison didn’t ask, but she did wonder what it was that made Renee feel unsafe. She lived in a lighthouse surrounded by nothing but water and dead birds in cages as bright as seal-fat lamps. It was horrible, but it didn’t seem dangerous. Did she think the dead damplings would rise from the waters and climb in through her lighthouse windows?

She asked the question aloud, and it startled a laugh out of Renee. Renee’s laugh wasn’t like windchimes or songbirds or snowflakes falling on crisp snow. It was brash and it was loud and it made Allison laugh too. She felt the euphoria of it: laughing with another person. At some point they had sat down beside each other, leaning back against the railing with their legs stretched out toward the lighthouse. It wasn’t until Renee gasped for breath that either of them spoke.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh,” she said. “You’re still grieving and I should respect that.”

That was certainly a way to bring Allison down from her high. She didn’t answer, unsure what she would even say. Even if she denied her grief Renee wouldn’t believe her. She tried to think how she would even phrase it, but everything she came up with didn’t make sense. It was like trying to explain dream logic, trying to put words to a story that should never be made conscious.

She tried anyway. She supposed that if Renee didn’t like it then she wouldn’t have to deal with it for long, and if she did… well. The company was nice. Sometimes it felt like every story she had to tell, she had already told the Foxes. Everything was so shared between them that nothing ever felt new. There was no mystery, no adventure.

“Janie, Dan, and I shared a coracle for over a year,” Allison said. “I haven’t been more than a hundred yards away from her since she joined the crew. The _Foxhole_ isn’t like those huge revival cruise ships or the military tankers. It’s so small. Sometimes it feels like living so close together means that we’re close…” She struggled to find the word. “Emotionally.”

Renee nodded. “I know what you mean. I had that once. Where I lived—before I lived here. Seeing the same faces every day. Knowing them better than your own.”

If Allison were talking to a Fox, she would make some joke about no one knowing her face as well as she did, and they would already know the punchline and say it before she did; because of how much time Allison spent in front of a mirror. But Allison was not with a Fox; she was with Renee. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know about her more than what Allison chose to show her, and yet understood how an entire island could feel like a family. How hard it was to leave it behind. Meeting Renee felt like a fresh start; someone to be someone else around, maybe to try out a different shade of honesty.

Allison put her hand on the table palm down, and stretched out her pinkie until it touched Renee’s. Renee flinched at the contact, and Allison drew back her hand for a split second before Renee reached out and clasped it within her own. Allison didn’t feel any static electricity. She wasn’t shocked, and it wasn’t painful. It just felt… nice. Despite the leather gloves Renee wore, her hand was warm to the touch. Allison stared down at their joined hands, at their entwined fingers. She wanted to see them skin to skin, but she’d respect whatever reason Renee had for wearing her gloves on nights she expected to be alone.

“But I don’t think Janie and I were ever that close,” Allison said. “Not really. I am with the others, or, most of the others. The Monsters never let anyone who wasn’t them get close enough to try. Other than Neil.”

“The Monsters?” Renee asked.

Allison nodded. “You’ll have noticed the twins, Andrew and Aaron.” Renee nodded in confirmation. “It’s them, their cousin Nicky—he’s the one who dresses like a coral reef—and Kevin—the one who looks like he has a coral reef stuck up his ass—and Neil. The mouthy redhead.”

“The one with scars,” Renee said, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, gosh. That was so rude.”

Allison laughed and squeezed her hand. It felt nice, to hold her hand. “Yeah, it was.”

Renee slumped in her. “I’m out of practice.”

“Of saying nice things about strangers?” Allison asked.

“Of talking in general. I don’t have visitors very often, and when I do they rarely stay to chat.”

“Their loss,” Allison said.

Renee smiled a little, those sunsets returning to her cheeks. Allison wondered what that heat would feel like under her lips, and how Renee would react if she leaned over to find out. Would she want her too? Would she push her away, or lean into the touch? Would she turn her head to meet her lips. And who would take the lead? It was so much simpler with boys; they would expect to take the lead and ‘show her a good time,’ and Allison would subvert that, pushing them back and following them down. It was different with women. She wouldn’t mind being on her knees for them, offering herself for whatever they wished.

She was startled out of her thoughts when Renee rubbed her gloved thumb over her knuckles. “What happened?” Renee asked.

Allison looked down at their entwined hands and realised Renee’s attention lay on the scarring on her side of her hand, small scrapes lining up between the base of her thumb and her index finger.

“Neil has a fox,” Allison said. “She didn’t like me trying to pick her up when she was trying to follow Neil off the boat.”

“A fox?” Renee echoed.

“Wymack said he was the fox-boy. What did you think that meant?”

Renee shook her head. “Nothing,” she said quickly. She continued before Allison had the chance to even laugh. “I’ve seen a fox before. Only once, but I remember it.”

“You would. Foxes aren’t exactly a common sight.”

Renee nodded. “Graces aren’t quite as unusual.”

“No,” Allison agreed, and flipped her braids over one shoulder with her free hand as she turned to face Renee. “But I’d like to see them all the same.”

Renee turned to look at her too, and Allison noted how her black hair was shiny enough to reflect the moonlight. It was a few moments before Renee responded. “Okay.”

Renee got her feet and held out her other hand to Allison to help her to her feet. The chivalry made her smile, and she took Renee’s hand in her own. With the other she slipped the jar into her pocket and followed Renee downstairs. Below the living area was the Resting room, and Allison glanced around as Renee unbolted the door. The room didn’t look any different from yesterday; all the Resting supplies were tucked away and out of sight. It was just a hollow room, empty save for a large table in the centre.

When Allison stepped out onto the porch she still expected a cool breeze to greet her, but instead the air was still. The waves gently lapped up the sides of the lighthouse in a way they never did against the sides of the _Foxhole_ out at sea. If they had, if the water was always this gentle, Janie would still be alive. But there was no point in dwelling on what ifs. Janie was dead and in the sea and would become food for sea creatures. Allison was alive and she wouldn’t insult Janie by wasting her life wondering about pointless what-ifs.

The _Foxhole_ towered over them. It blocked most of the moonlight though Allison could just make out the silhouette of Renee. She followed her over to the tin rowing boat, silent as shadows in the still night.

Allison sat opposite Renee as the latter rowed them further away from the lighthouse. Allison didn’t watch it get smaller and smaller, or watch the _Foxhole_ to see whether anyone was peeking out from under their coracle’s canvas. She looked at Renee, and Renee looked at her. Neither of them spoke.

Renee didn’t stop at the gracecage containing Janie’s feather but instead she rowed them further into the graceyard. The cages here were just as shiny and bright as the ones Allison had seen the day before, so Renee must polish them all often, rather than just the new ones. Renee didn’t anchor the boat, nor tie it to the fine chain woven through the gracecages. Instead she leaned over the side, somehow managing not to tip it off balance and capsize them both, and reached out to unlatch the cage door. The grace didn’t try to fly out, like Allison had assumed, so she lowered her arms from where she had raised them to protect her face. She caught Renee looking at her, and she was pleased to note that the mirthful edge to her gaze had returned. Allison figured that snapping back like she would with the Foxes would only discourage Renee from teasing her again, so instead Allison stuck her tongue out at her childishly. It worked. Renee’s slight smile broke out into a grin that Allison couldn’t help but watch. For a brief moment she envied Andrew’s eidetic memory; she never wanted to forget this.

Renee reached into the cage and picked the grace up. It settled itself between her palms. When Renee sat back down on her bench in the rowing boat with the grace in her lap, she looked up at Allison for a moment before reaching out toward Allison. Allison looked at her empty hand and wondered what Renee was asking for. It wasn’t until Renee shuffled forward on her bench and reached out again for Allison that Allison realised she meant her hand. She hoped it was too dark for Renee to notice her embarrassment, but doubted luck would grace her. She could see Renee clearly in the moonlight, as well as the grace and the bird cages and the _Foxhole._ Allison raised her hands from where they were clasped between her knees, and put one in Renee’s outstretched hand. She had to move to sit beside her when Renee brought her hand over to the grace. When Allison’s fingers brushed the grace’s feathers she was surprised by how soft they felt. She could feel its heart beating quickly, more account for its size than fear. All around her was the smell of saltwater, of home.

“Thank you,” Allison said, both to the grace and to Renee.

Renee didn’t reply, and they sat in silence until Allison set the grace back in Renee’s hand. Renee put it back in its cage. As Renee started to row, Allison watched the sunrise on the horizon. She almost expected the graces to start tweeting like the birds on the islands did, singing their aubade at the first light of day. They didn’t. They were mourning birds. They weren’t built for singing.

Renee didn’t take them back to the lighthouse, but instead toward the coracles. Allison had to point out which one was hers, and Renee stopped beside it. Allison held her arms out to push at the coracle to stop the two boats from bumping into each other and waking Dan. She didn’t look over her shoulder at Renee as she climbed from the rowing boat to her coracle. She waited until her feet were firmly planted on the canvas top, and then turned around. They stared at each other for a few moments in silence. What was there to say? They had spent the early hours of the morning together, but Allison would leave with the _Foxhole Circus_ before the sun reached its peak.

“Farewell,” Renee whispered into the night, breaking their quietness with the breath of her voice. Allison imagined it brushing against her skin, as humid and velvety as the air cocooning them, or as cool and crisp as the breaking waves below them.

The idea of saying ‘farewell’ back sounded strange. It was so formal and disconnected from the rest of the night. So instead Allison just nodded, and unclipped the canvas. She heard Renee adjust the oars as Allison drew back the canvas to leave enough space for her to climb back inside, and she let herself glance at Renee’s retreating form before she slipped back into the warmth of her coracle. Dan was still asleep, and when Allison clipped the canvas top back into place, she could no longer hear the gentle waves outside.

She tucked herself back into her bunk, the sheets cool against her skin, and dreamed of flying with pale-feathered wings.


	8. seven

**captain’s wisdom** \ ˈkap-tənz-ˈwiz-dəm \ often traditional superstitions based on the stories of damplings

 **D** avid dreamed of the storm. Since that fateful night, his dreams had taken a hardened edge, rocking him into consciousness with every cresting wave of memory. They were slightly different every time, to the point that David couldn’t remember exactly what _had_ happened. They always ended the same, though. Always losing one of his Foxes to the sea. Layer upon layer of drownings, and whatever his dream self did, he could never save Janie.

The dream that finally woke him up that morning was of a sea monster claiming the _Foxhole_ as its latest conquest. David couldn’t remember what it looked like other than its monstrousness. He supposed most would say that was for the best, as it would not haunt his every thought, but David preferred lost sleep to ignorance. Despite not recalling the shape of the sea monster, he recalled its actions in vivid clarity. The creature had reached into the _Foxhole’_ s coracles one by one and dragged out each of his Foxes. In the dream, David’s hands had been armed with Andrew’s knives and some gun he had seen on a pirate captain’s belt. He had all of the _Foxhole’_ s canons lined up ready to fire, but all his weapons had been useless because David could neither move nor give the signal to Abby to fire at the sea monster. However hard he had tried, he couldn’t move. He had stood armed but impotent as the coracles emptied of his crew. It had saved Kevin for last, and Kevin had been dragged out slowly enough for him to tell David what an awful father he had been. David hadn’t been able to spare Kevin his trauma from the _Circus Evermore,_ and he had not spared Kevin from this sea monster. David had expected the creature to turn on him then, but instead it had only leered at him and left him untouched and broken among the bones of his fleet. Abby had walked around to face him, tears in her eyes, and shook her head wordlessly at him. He had let her down. He had let them all down.

David had woken several minutes ago, yet he was as paralysed now in his bed as he had been in the dream. His heart hammered in his throat, and his chest was chilly with sweat. He repeated the mantra of breathing in and out in counts of four. 1, 2, 3, 4. Hold. 4, 3, 2, 1. Hold.

Captain’s wisdom said that those who encountered monsters at sea were those who had brought monsters on board. For all their infamous reputation, no Fox was a monster. Kids dealt with a shitty hand, sure, but there was no monster on board his fleet. He let that thought soothe him until he felt his heartbeat slow. It still took monumental effort to turn his head to the side to see Abby sleeping in her own bed at the other side of the captain’s cabin.

David knew what his Foxes gossiped and bet about, and his relationship with Abby was not spared. From what he had gathered from snippets of conversation and arguments, the Foxes were tied fifty-fifty on whether he and Abby were sleeping together. David had tried to bring it up to Abby, to ask her if she wanted to finally break the news, but Abby had only laughed and said that it was the longest running bet the Foxes had, and that it was something that banded them together for the most part. David supposed that was true, and hadn’t said a word about it since. He and Abby had shared a cabin for years, on account of the fact that she either shared with him, the only adult over the age of thirty, or with both Dan and Allison. Janie had joined their crew later on, but at that point it made sense to fit her in with the girls.

David decided not to think of Janie. His grief was still raw and he had too much to do. The crew needed to be fed, which meant that the circus needed to perform, which meant leaving this damned graceyard.

David changed his clothes behind the tall screen in the corner of the room, and left his cabin quietly so he wouldn’t wake Abby. She’d lost just as much sleep David had to nightmares, and he didn’t want to wake her if he could help it. Perhaps he could control this small thing.

Out on the deck, David surveyed the state of his ship. The _Foxhole_ was still anchored beside the gracekeeper’s lighthouse, and the main mast towered over it while the coracles snaked through the lines of gracecages. David was proud of his Foxes for the lives they had built on the sea, and he allowed himself to be proud of his own achievements, too. He had built the _Foxhole Circus_ from nothing. He’d built it for _her._ Many damplings and landlockers alike had seen the _Circus Evermore_ that night, and many had fallen in love with the spirited and beautiful trapeze artist Kayleigh Day, but David had been the only one who’d loved her enough to rescue her from the life of the circus. For ten years he had worked and worked and worked and built a whole new circus boat for her.

_“What’s that one called?” Kayleigh asked as she and David lay down on the deck of their unnamed ship._

_David followed her finger to a constellation in the sky. “Vulpecula et Anser,” David said. “The little fox and the goose.”_

_David looked back at Kayleigh. She was squinting at the sky, as if that would make the image more apparent in the night sky. He raised his hand to wrap around her wrist, and moved her hand to point at one of the stars._

_“That’s the fox’s jaw,” he said, and then moved her hand slightly to the right. “And that’s the goose’s neck.”_

_Kayleigh laughed. “If that’s the goose’s neck then the fox holds it by its leg. No. I prefer it if the fox has that feathered bastard by the jugular.”_

_David adjusted his hand so that their fingers were entwined. He brought them back down onto the deck and Kayleigh rolled over onto her side to look at him directly._

_“They’re gone, Kay,” he whispered. “They’re not going to hurt you or Kevin ever again.”_

_Kayleigh nodded. “They’re just scrawny geese,” she said, and David bit his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “We’re the foxes. We’ll beat them.”_

He had almost been too late. He’d sold his house on North-West 2 and with that money he had bought a ship and hired a crew to sail it. He’d followed the _Evermore_ until North-East 9, where David had snuck behindcurtains to smuggle Kayleigh and her son— _their_ son, he had later discovered—out. But Kevin had fallen from the trapeze and broken his hand, and there were too many eyes on them for David to hide them away onto his new boat. He’d only managed it because there had been a new focal point for the crowd and the Ravens to latch onto. A boy with a fox. Years later David had met that boy again, given him a home and a life in exchange for the home and the life Neil had unknowingly given them. On some days David wished he had gotten to Neil sooner, but he couldn’t change the past any more than he could bring Kayleigh back from the depths of the graceyard on the other side of the world. Neil had returned to the _Foxhole_ in the end, and David couldn’t regret that.

The mirror-flat sea surrounded them still, and the sky overhead was slowly lightening to blue without a cloud in sight. Even when they got the mainsail back from the gracekeeper, it wouldn’t be much use in this still air. They’d have to float steadily with the push of the waves until they found a decent wind. They were lucky to have fixed the rudder the previous night. David would have had a hard time steering the _Foxhole_ out of the graceyard with the cracked and bent rudder the storm had left them with.

He looked across the deck of his ship to his crew. While they tightened the ropes and otherwise pretended to look busy, David could see the anticipation held taut in their limbs, and the steadiness of their gazes when they felt eyes on them and looked up at the helm. They were waiting for David’s assessment of their repairs. Landlockers often gossiped about the notorious Foxes, believed them to be outcasts and criminals and monsters. But David knew them as they really were: their delicacies, their sensitivities, as quiet as they were boisterous depending on the occasion.

ALRIGHT, MAGGOTS, he called out. His ringmaster voice, as Dan liked to call it, felt rusty in his throat. LET’S GET HER OUT TO SEA WHERE SHE BELONGS.

They got back to work, and David looked over at the gracekeeper’s lighthouse. He needed to get their mainsail back. He picked up the mostly empty crate beside his feet and stepped down from the helm toward the side of the _Foxhole._ He found the ladder down to the gracekeeper’s porch from memory alone, but he still stumbled a little when his boots hit the metal slats of stable ground.

Memory couldn’t account for everything, so it seemed.

The gracekeeper—Renee, he recalled—answered the door on his second knock, so David assumed she had been waiting for him. The mainsail lay folded on the table behind her, where Janie’s body had lain the day before. David looked away. He pushed the crate into Renee’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not much.”

_Wasn’t much_ was an understatement. David felt ashamed at the payment he’d given to the gracekeeper. Four strips of oilskin, a tub of seal fat, and a half-dozen eggs. It wasn't enough to repay her for Janie’s Resting, but it was all they could spare. The circus’ usual payment was a show, but it didn’t seem appropriate to perform in a graceyard. Janie deserved better than that.

“It’s enough,” Renee said kindly.

David almost believed her. He tried to recall the face of the gracekeeper who had Rested Kayleigh, but he could only recall other white clothes in another white lighthouse.

He nodded and stayed standing in the doorway as Renee set the crate down on her table. She unpacked it, which made its contents seem even more meager, and then put the mainsail into the crate before handing it back to him. David was grateful. Crates were cheaper and easier to come by than mainsails, but they wouldn’t dock at an island for several weeks.

David made his way back to the _Foxhole,_ and Matt and Aaron hauled in the anchor when David’s boots hit the deck. They started to drift slowly, slowly, on. Wymack steered them out of the graceyard. He didn’t think he had hit any of the gracecages, but he couldn’t be certain. He hoped that if he had, the birds inside were already dead and wouldn’t take offence.

It was an entire day until the graceyard was out of sight. The wind was lazy and progress was slow, but at least they were moving. The crew looked more at ease when they were moving, as if the distance between themselves and Janie’s Resting place eased their mourning. Perhaps that was true.

The only Fox who didn’t seem better for the distance was, surprisingly, Allison. David knew that she had been the one to look after Seth since the storm, and that Seth’s mourning would weigh heavily on her. It was above his pay grade, as he dubbed his portion of the _Foxhole Circus’_ income, but that only meant he wouldn’t ask about it until it affected his crew. It didn’t mean he didn’t care. He hoped that Allison was strong enough to hold herself up as well as she was doing with Seth.

At the pace they were currently going, they would run out of food before they reached North-West 1, but with a few days of good wind they’d be able to make port and resupply. From there, it would only be a few months until they reached the North-East archipelago. David had charts of the world down in his cabin, and on such a small scale the islands looked crowded together. He knew though that distance lied. Miles of sea stretched between almost all pieces of land.

A little while later, Dan joined him on the helm. She didn’t say anything for a while, just watched the horizon ahead of them as the _Foxhole_ trudged along.

David let her gather her thoughts. He was patient enough to wait for whatever she had to say.

Her words came a few minutes later. “I’m worried about Seth.”

David nodded. They were all worried about Seth. Allison was still having to bully him into eating, he hadn’t bathed (not that there was much opportunity to at sea), and he looked a _mess._

David had lived for forty-eight years, which wasn’t bad for a dampling. Life at sea was hard and hungry and full of dangers, so damplings were lucky to make it to thirty. But he wondered whether the years had softened him. With the exception of the Ravens, life at sea was also repetitive. Hunger was an ache that rarely faded but rarely shocked him anymore. Maybe it wasn’t the same for Seth. Janie’s death had affected them all, but Seth had been close with her the way the others weren’t.

Either way, if Seth needed someone to talk to, he shouldn’t try with David. His job was to get the Foxes from one island to the next in one piece, to put food on their plates. If they needed to talk about their feelings he was always willing to listen, but if they needed words of comfort they knew to take it up with Abby instead.

“Hearts stop every day,” he said to Dan, who was looking for reassurance and guidance more than comfort. “Tomorrow it may be yours, or mine. But this time it was Janie’s. We did what we could to save her, but it was too late—and your coracle could have sunk the entire circus.”

Dan nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Her body rests in its proper place. You’ve done what you’ve needed to, and Seth knows that. Just give him time.”

Dan drew in a shaky breath, but nodded again. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I know.”

David grunted. “Don’t you have a job to do? I’m sure there’s a deck to scrub somewhere.”

Dan smiled, the first since the storm. “Yes, Captain.”

**quadrant** \ ˈkwä-drənt \ a navigation tool used to measure the altitude of the sun

 **T** he following days passed by so slowly that David barely noticed the first breath of wind that signaled their emergence from the doldrums. It was Nicky, in fact, who alerted him.

‘Alerted’ was a strong word. It made it sound like Nicky had intentionally drawn David’s attention to the wind. That was not what happened. What actually had happened was that Nicky was screeching about something or other to do with his family—something involving Andrew and Neil that David decided to not pay attention to—but when David’s head turned in Nicky’s direction he felt the push of a breeze against his skin.

Matt, who had taken to lying back against the canvas of his and Seth’s coracle and bathing in the sunlight, was the second to notice. Seth, perched on the edge of the coracle and letting his feet dangle into the water, flinched at Matt’s shout.

“Easterly! I feel an easterly, Captain!”

David nodded in acknowledgement, but he looked past Matt’s coracle and further out to sea. The sun glinted silver off the kicked-up waves, and the sky overhead was clear and blue. Matt’s shout had roused the rest of the crew from their sun-drenched slumper. David waited for Dan’s headcount before announcing that they were free of the doldrums. He cut off their cheer with orders to hoist the sails. They would usually grumble good naturedly, but their only response now was silent acceptance. They just moved to their positions on the deck and followed his orders. David supposed that was all he could ask of them. Sometimes he asked Abby if she thought that the crew thought him callous for continuing on in the face of such a loss, but he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. There were nine other members of the _Foxhole’_ s crew, excluding Abby and himself, and it was his responsibility to ensure that they were fed and clothed and kept safe. He thought he’d rather be a callous captain than a negligent one. Besides, Abby thought the Foxes still thought highly of him.

While David walked over toward the mainmast, the Foxes busied themselves with their individual tasks. Dan stood at the wheel, keeping the _Foxhole_ steady and straight. Seth and Aaron followed Abby belowdecks to the kitchens. Matt, Kevin, and Andrew dug out their skin-diver gear and the thick glass sphere of the lung, ready to collect food for dinner. Nicky sat on the edge of his coracle with his feet dipped into the water, shouting over to Kevin and Andrew the names of the undersea items he needed for his costumes and makeup supplies. Neil exercised his fox on the deck while it was mostly clear.

“Allison!” David called out, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up the length of the mainmast. Allison’s hand appeared over the side of the crow’s nest in acknowledgement and a few moments later she climbed down. Her feet barely made a sound when they hit the deck.

She held her hand out for the mainsail, impatient.

“You got somewhere better to be?” David asked, raising an eyebrow.

“North-East 6, South-East 13, maybe the north pole?”

“Don’t be smart.”

“You wouldn’t hire us if we were stupid.”

Behind him, David heard the tell-tale splash of someone falling into the sea. David looked over his shoulder to see Nicky in the water, pouting.

“I saw a fish,” he whined at Dan, who stood at the edge of the deck to look down at him pityingly.

“And you wanted to catch it with your bare hands?” Dan asked. Nicky didn’t reply.

David turned back to Allison. “You were saying?”

Allison ignored him, and looked pointedly at her empty hand, still hovering between them. David handed over the mainsail.

The distance up the mast to attach the mainsail was not far, but Allison was used to climbing up silks and ropes and platforms, so she was usually the one to do it. When she was busy with something else or ill—none of the Foxes remembered Allison’s dramatics and tantrums over a runny nose fondly—the task was usually left with Neil, who was small and skinny enough to shin a little way up the mask.

Allison draped the mainsail over one shoulder and began to climb up the mainmast once again. David left her to it. He looked back over his crew and made mental notes to himself about what he needed to do for the day: he needed to talk to Matt about tweaking his strongman act; he should check that Nicky had properly mended the costumes for the maypole; the _Foxhole’_ s seams needed another round of caulking; he needed to check that the movement of the wheel was smoothly oiled.

David heard the ting of glass on metal and looked over to the coracles again. Kevin and Andrew had emerged from the surface, unclasping their lungs and breathing in the fresh air.

“I wasn’t finished!” Kevin protested as soon as Andrew would be able to hear him.

“I was,” Andrew said, uncaring. He passed the lung up to Nicky, and then hauled up the sack of gathered supplies.

“But there’s plenty more down there to see!”

“Then go back down there,” Wymack interrupted. “You can scrape off any barnacles from the undersides of the coracles.”

Kevin made a face. “There’s nothing interesting under the coracles.”

“I don’t know, Kev,” David said. “I’ve met a fair few barnacles that could hold a conversation or two.”

Kevin scowled at him, but Nicky spoke up before Kevin could. “We’ll have to go skin-diving again soon, anyway. I’ve enough to cover the next show but nothing more than that.”

Kevin examined the glass sphere of his lung for scratches. “Fine.”

David nodded at Nicky in gratitude. Kevin was as stubborn as any of them when he got his heart set on something, but Nicky knew as well as David did that the further up north they sailed, the more intact the flooded cities were. Kevin was an Old World fanatic, but David had no idea where he got it from. David was more interested in the present than the past, and Kayleigh always had an eye on the future.

From above him came the click of bone hoops, the shift of limbs, the shush of fabric. Allison had hung the sail and climbed back down, but David kept his eyes on the crew.

READY TO HOIST! he called out. He waited for the crew to climb back into their coracles or onto the deck of the _Foxhole._ No one wanted to be left behind in the sea when the fleet started to pick up speed. When his crew were secure, David tugged on the rope that would hoist the sail and get them on their way.

_Don’t let Janie’s ghost be on that sail,_ he thought. _Please, please, all you gods of the earth and the sea, let that gracekeeper have rinsed the sail. Let Janie Rest._

He hoisted the sail. The orange fabric was bright against the blue sky and the blue sea, a homing signal for those lost causes in the world in need of a second chance. It was clean and spotless as the day it was made, and David sighed a breath of relief. He watched it belly in the wind, already tugging the _Foxhole_ and its coracles along to their next port. David pulled out his brass compass that hung around his neck on a fine chain, and traced his finger along the embossed constellation of the fox and the goose. He flipped it open. North. He glanced over to see Dan at the helm double checking the quadrant with Kevin. They both looked up and David nodded. Dan took hold of the wheel and steered them in the right direction. David stayed on the deck, facing their direction of travel and letting the wind caress his face.

**chandler** \ ˈchan(d)-lər \ a dealer in provisions and supplies or equipment of a specified kind

 **A** fter the circus boat left, Renee spent the passing days doing her chores. Her dress had worn patches that needed to be stitched. Her shirt did too, but she didn’t have to look as presentable in that. The shirt and trousers were meant for comfort, but no one was supposed to see her wearing them. She ignored the questioning voice in her head, asking if that were the case, why had she let the aerialist see her in trousers.

So once her dress was patched, she busied her mind by polishing the gracecages again and again until they gleamed as bright as the sun. She tried to focus on the task when she reached the cage she had taken Allison too. The grace was still alive, but didn’t pay Renee much mind as she scrubbed at the bars.

The supply boat had returned, so her gracecages were no longer empty and she was no longer hungry, though she wasn’t quite sure what to do with so much dried lavender. She knew how to brew it for tea, but then she remembered Allison wanting to use the rose petals for haircare. The way she talked about it sounded like witchcraft, and Renee had momentarily wondered whether Allison had a gift for the land, before remembering Allison’s expression when she looked out to the ocean. No earth witch could be so content so far away from any shore.

Two other Restings had gone by, though Renee hadn’t pretended the words were for Stephanie. The Resting parties hadn’t complained, of course, because they didn’t know that her words weren’t heartfelt. They had never seen a comparison. Renee had wrapped their corpses in hemp and taken their families and friends to the caged bird above where they lay. Every night she had dreamed of Allison. In sleep she could not tell herself that this was unwise, that her infatuation was simply a byproduct of loneliness and boredom. In sleep she couldn’t stop herself from replaying their night out on the porch, how warm Allison’s body was sat beside her own.

It stayed with her when she woke up the next morning. She lay in bed, curled onto her side on her bed pushed up against the curved wall of her bedroom. When she had moved into her lighthouse seven years ago, the bed had faced the stairs. Renee had known she wouldn’t be able to sleep like that. She knew the exposure would keep her awake and paranoid, or wake her from the few minutes of sleep her body would demand her to fall into. So that first night in her new home she had moved the bed so that the side of it was pushed against the wall. It wasn’t a perfect fit; the bed was straight-edged and the wall was curved. There was a slight gap down the side of the bed between the headboard and the foot. But it was close enough.

So was the dream. Far too close.

She thought that by writing down the words she wanted to say would help get them out of her mind, or at least make her see sense. She had slipped out of bed and padded over to the writing desk on the other side of her bedroom on her tip-toes. The floor was cold almost every morning, but her island council hadn’t provided her with slippers or warm socks. Stephanie had once knitted her a pair, but Renee had had to trade them for food after a particularly terrible storm two years ago.

There were two rolls of fabric in the small drawer of her desk. They were the colour of oats, purchased from a strange chandler ship that visited her home island only a week before Renee departed for the graceyards. Renee hadn’t been the type to believe the wild tales told by traders, but the stranger had given Renee’s gloves a knowing glance and told her that she had ‘just what she needed’. Renee hadn’t believed her for a second, but she had been curious and she knew how to handle herself in a fight if it came down to it. She didn’t put it past the military to resort to dirty tricks like that. It would have been a bad call though, since dirty tricks were what the Bloodsharks thrived on.

Renee took one of the rolls out and unfurled the end of the fabric onto her workspace. She rested the tip of her pen—not yet dipped in squid ink—on the top left corner of the fabric as she thought. She imagined how the worlds would look, how the ink would bleed a little. The words in her head all seemed wrong. She had no idea what she wanted to say. She didn’t have the words to translate her thoughts, and her thoughts were a moonstruck mess.

Frustrated, she stood up again, her chair scraping against the smooth metal slats of the floor. She remembered Alvarez’ stories about the fine rugs some rich landlockers had in their houses, and imagined the silent footsteps of warm feet. Would she let herself want that? She tried so hard to be a good person, to be grateful for the second chance she was given, but what was a good person on the sea? On land, one only had to follow the rules and be polite to strangers. Here, with the vastness of the ocean and scattered ships roaming free, what rules were there to follow? She did her job, but bad people could have jobs.

_Am I a good person?_ she wanted to write. She didn’t.

Instead she paced around her lighthouse, and inspiration was eventually found in the jar of dried lavender buds.

Renee scattered a small handful onto the fabric just as the ink of her message dried, and she folded it once, twice, three times. It still felt like there was something missing. She wondered if Allison would even recognise the connection between lavender and the rose petals, or whether she would assume Renee was simply asking for advice. Renee would be grateful for anything Allison had to offer and wanted to give, but she wanted to ask for something that couldn’t be found in dried flora. She wanted to be remembered.

Renee pulled on her trousers but kept on the nightshirt that fell to her knees. It was made of a thicker fabric than Jean’s shirt and her dress, and so would keep her marginally warmer until the sun started to heat the day.

She took her rowing boat out toward the edge of her graceyard. Nine thick chains spiraled around her lighthouse, anchored into place at seven points to keep their curved shape. The gracecages were hooked into the links of the chain at almost-even intervals. She went all the way out to the furthest-away grace, the one she had caged last week. It didn’t have long left. When she stopped by its cage, she checked to see if it was still breathing. It was. Its time had not yet come, but it wouldn’t be too far off. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after. She would have to come out again in her rowing boat to unclip the cage door and tip its tiny body into the water.

She hated the waiting.

Death was something she knew intimately. She’d had her own hand in it, long ago. But this waiting? Just letting time pass by without thought and simply _allow_ things to wither away and die? She hated it. But she could not condemn those who had built this tradition. She had blood on her hands, so who was she to judge the morality of others?

_Am I a good person?_

It wasn’t her place to ask. Maybe she didn’t deserve an answer.

Renee unclasped the cage lock and reached inside. The grace didn’t react to her intrusion, nor to her ruffling through its feathers until she found the largest, brightest one. It didn’t even flinch when she tugged the feather free. It didn’t even seem to know she was there. Renee drew her hand back out of the gracecage, and held the feather up into the light, watching the colours shift from green to blue and back again. She sat in her boat on the flat sea for a long time. Surrounded by dying birds with a single feather in hand, the seconds turned into minutes turned into hours. Her face started to itch. She was going to be sunburnt, but she still had a jar of aloe vera in her bathroom.

She looked over to the lighthouse, and then back to the feather in hand. A moment later Renee pulled out the roll of fabric, set the feather above the dried lavender, and wrapped the fabric around its contents, again and again and again. She tucked the end inside so it wouldn’t unwravel. When she got back to her lighthouse, she sat back down at her desk.

_Allison Reynolds,_ she wrote on the outside. Underneath it she added, _The Foxhole Circus._

**furl** \ ˈfərl \ to roll up and secure, especially a ship’s sail

 **T** he messenger boat arrived at night. Renee didn’t expect otherwise; messengers usually used the constellations for navigation. Renee was in her kitchen at the time, curled up in the worn armchair by the window. There was enough moonlight filtering through to light up the page of her book. Her attention swayed from the printed words to the window when she heard the steady splash of an approaching boat outside.

Renee was used to the messenger boat’s comings and goings. It didn’t arrive often, and sometimes three boats arrived one day after the other before an entire year without seeing them again. She didn’t use them, though. Who would she write to? Everyone she wanted to keep in touch with lived in a lighthouse next door.

Until now, she supposed.

Renee changed into her dress and pulled on her gloves and boots before opening the door downstairs. She waited on the porch as the single-masted boat approached, sails fluttering. There was a huge waterproof chest on the deck, likely full of messages and parcels. At the helm was a figure with the typical uniform of a messenger: blue clothes and a shaved head. The latter was so that landlockers would recognise the messengers as what they were, so they didn’t have to wear bells when they went ashore like other damplings did. She couldn’t see the messenger’s face yet, but she hoped it was Jeremy. He was kind in a world that made kindness hard.

When the messenger’s boat bumped against the dock, the messenger furled the sails and fastened their ship with a length of rope. They stepped out and Renee realised they were taller than she hoped for. Not Jeremy. They leaned against their boat with unwavering confidence, and Renee sighed to herself before stepping into her rowing boat. Every pull on the oars dragged. Could she wait for Jeremy to return? The next messenger boat wasn’t due for another six months but perhaps he would come early. They were never reliable.

When she got close enough for the moonlight to take effect, Renee realised who the messenger was, and considered turning around. It was Hawking.

She bit back her pride. “I need you to take something for me,” she said. “A message.” She pulled the cloth-wrapped feather from her dress pocket. “The name and address is on it.”

“Hello to you too,” he replied. Renee didn’t respond. Hawking reached over into her rowing boat, and Renee tensed, ready for a fight. But he only lifted the parcel from her fingers and gave it a considering tap with his fingers. Renee looked at his fingernails so she didn’t have to look at his face. They were short, but dirty. They were cut unevenly. “I don’t hear anything inside,” he continued. “Or is it just a message written on the inside of the fabric?”

It seemed rude to tell him that it wasn’t any of his business, so Renee didn’t say anything at all.

“Or is it a verbal message? Seems odd to take the cheap option when you’ve already got the fabric, but I don’t mind. I’m good at verbals. One of the best, if you want to know. I don’t just remember the words, but I remember the intent of the words. That’s what really matters.”

He grinned, and his teeth were as unclean as his fingernails. Renee considered telling him that she had heard otherwise, that Jean had once asked him to send a verbal message to someone and had received a rather rude reply.

“I have payment,” Renee said instead. She put her hand in her other dress pocket and scooped out the chips of quartz and copper. It was a month’s worth of Resting payments, the parts she couldn’t eat or wear or wash with. She dropped the chips into Hawking’s large hand. He poked around them with his grubby hand.

“Is this all you’ve got?” he asked. “This isn’t even enough for a verbal.”

Renee gritted her teeth. It had been enough for Jeremy the last time the messenger boat passed her graceyard. “It has to be enough.”

His grin turned mean. “Does it? Last I checked, you’re asking _me_ for a favour.”

Renee ground her teeth tighter together. Her jaw would ache in the morning.

Hawking shrugged, like this conversation was meaningless to him. So small in the grand scheme of his life as a messenger. Perhaps, to him, it was. Perhaps all he gained from this exchange was the simple pleasure of another’s misfortune. Renee couldn’t stand it.

“Sorry,” he said unapologetically, and tossed Renee’s parcel back into her lap. “I’ll be back in around six months or so. You can save up and I’ll take it then.”

There was no guarantee that it would be Hawking to return in six months over any other messenger, but Renee felt like maybe she deserved it. When she didn’t start to beg he tried a different angle.

“I have to eat too, you know. Messages mean money and money means food.” He sighed, as if Renee asking for him to do his job was a burden. “I could take the message, I suppose, if we traded for something. We can figure something out.”

She felt his gaze on her like slime. She wanted to shudder with it, to recoil. She did not. She held her head high and thought about all the ways she could gut him open from throat to groin. She wouldn’t hesitate. The blood that splattered on her would be warm and taste like those copper chips he handed back to her. She would lick it from her red-stained lips. _Would that be enough?_ She could take the iron from his blood and forge it into chips. So many chips he would choke on them. _Would you take my message now? Tell the gods I say hello._

She inhaled. Exhaled. Her thudding heart started to quieten.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“What’s your name?” Hawking asked, oblivious to the graces shuddering in their cages and the sea churning around the moorings.

She paused.

She was not that person. Not anymore.

She still ignored him. He didn’t deserve her name.

Renee picked a flake of rust from the edge of her rowing boat and cast it into the water. It left a reddish smudge on the finger of her glove.

Hawking seemed restless for no apparent reason, shifting his feet on the metal slats of her dock and rubbing his hands over his scalp. Renee choked down on the smile that threatened to break.

“Well,” he said, already stepping back toward his boat. “No payment. No message.”

Renee didn’t reply, but kept her cool gaze on him. He couldn’t meet her eyes. When he got back into his boat, she tugged his rope off the dock and threw the coil into his boat without a word. She didn’t say goodbye as he turned his boat around and sailed back into the night.

Renee stayed in her rowing boat by the dock for a long time. She didn’t move, but her thoughts stirred. She could wait on her porch every evening and watch for the return of another messenger boat. What difference would a few months make? Everything, maybe. Would Allison remember her in six months? Would she remember her tomorrow? Circus folk met new people all the time.

She looked down at the parcel in her lap and picked it up. The ink had bled a little, but even in the scarce light of the new moon it was still legible. If the feather meant anything to Allison, she would know by the response. If there was no response, then Renee would know that either Allison had forgotten her or didn’t care enough to keep correspondence. She would never know which, but she supposed she didn’t quite care. Neither were desirable options. The alternative was that Allison would reply, that she did remember Renee and she did want to stay in touch. But how would she know if Allison never received her message?

She had to take things into her own hands.

She dropped the parcel into the sea and watched as it floated, grew heavy, and sunk. She watched it until it was gone from view, and then considered her now-free hands. It was simple, in theory. In practice…

It was a long time before Renee could bring herself to tug off her gloves. She reasoned that she did this every night before going to sleep. It wasn’t the same. She felt the slide of leather over her palms and the back of her hands and she couldn’t look away. Swirls of black ink marked her flesh, branding her as Other, as dangerous, as a weapon. It was the Bloodsharks who had given her these tattoos, a promise that she could hide her ink as she could hide her power, but both would always remain hidden under the surface. Only her palms were untouched, and it was this unmarked skin that touched the surface of the water first.

Her breath caught in her throat on a sharp inhale. It was cold. She exhaled shakily, her whole body but her hand trembling. She felt the water reach and stretch up her skin before dipping back down again at the trough of the wave. It left its trace on her. Goosebumps raced up her arm and she wished it was day. She wished for the sweltering sun. Night remained.

She breathed again, stronger this time. She let the surety of the sea guide her movements. Renee reached out further into the water, submerging her hand, her wrist, her forearm. She had to maneuver herself in her rowing boat so it didn’t capsize.

She breathed again, in control. She closed her eyes.

Beneath her fingertips she felt the entire ocean. She felt every wave, lapping at the foundations of her neighbouring lighthouses. She felt it seeping up the shores of distant islands. She felt every grain of sand layering the world beneath.

She reached out.

The waves by her neighbouring lighthouses stilled, if only for a moment. Landlockers watched from their windows as the water creeped higher and higher up the blackshore, onto the earth and sinking between shoots of grass before returning to its regular tide. Grains of sand started to rise from the drowned world beneath. It wasn’t just sand, either: pearls and tiny pieces of glass from what were once shattered windows started to rise too. Currents in the sea shifted, bringing with them minerals never seen in the doldrums. They rose and then sunk low again, deeper and deeper through the cracks in the sea bed. They changed, and Renee changed with them. Molten they were, and with every steady pulse of the sea, Renee breathed. When the water shifted and swirled, Renee breathed. Still she kept her eyes closed. Everything she felt was below the surface of the sea; _she_ was beneath the surface of the sea. Her entire being, churning and pulsing and cresting and breaking.

They started to rise once more, cooling and cooling and cooling until they found Renee’s message. They embraced it, trapping it in its warmth and then the water pushed out. They encased that message as they started to knit themselves together, cooling and cooling still until—

Renee felt the cool, smooth glass beneath her fingertips.

She inhaled.

Exhaled.

The glass bottle drifted away.


	9. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a chapter where using the creator's style helps with the reading, though it should still make sense if you're using a screenreader/e-reader

**flotsam** \ ˈflät-səm \ the wreckage of a ship or its cargo found floating on or washed up by the sea

 **N** orth-West 1 smelled of pine needles. It smelled pungent, overpowering, disgusting. Allison struggled to breathe through it; it was like her nose was filled with soil. How landlockers chose the stench of rotting wood over the fresh ocean breeze, Allison didn’t know. When she looked across her coracle to Dan’s bunk, Dan’s nose wrinkled.

“Is it possible to turn off a smell?” she asked.

“It’s so we know they’re landlockers,” Allison said.

Dan huffed out a laugh. “Not like the food they have is proof enough.”

Across the archipelagos, landlockers spoke of North-West 1’s woody, earthy scent of the pines. They believed the needles brought them good luck. Allison believed them to be full of shit. Pine trees smelled of dirt and mold, like all other trees. She couldn’t remember whether she hated the smell so viscerally as a child, but after four years living as a dampling she now had to reaccustom herself to the sharpness of the smell.

Allison stayed lying down on her back as she swung her legs over the side of her bed, and curled her toes at the cold of the floor of their coracle. She asked herself why she bothered sometimes.

“Is that comfortable?” Dan asked.

Allison turned her head to see Dan sitting up on her bunk, pulling a sweater over her head.

“Fuck off,” Allison grumbled. “I don’t want to get up.”

Dan got to her feet and passed Allison’s bunk. She peeled back the edge of the canvas and peeped out. She didn’t let too much sunlight invade the coracle, which Allison was grateful for.

“We’ve docked already,” Dan said.

Allison hummed but otherwise didn’t comment. Dan turned back to her with a hand on her hip. She probably thought she looked menacing or stern. She didn’t. Still, Allison bolted upright and swayed on unsteady feet when Dan came marching over. Allison put her hands up in surrender.

“I’m up, I’m up,” she said.

“Yeah, you better be,” Dan said. “We’ve got work to do.”

Allison nodded and passed Dan to peep out the canvas. She couldn’t tell which beach the _Foxhole_ had docked on. When she looked around for any signs of the cardinal directions, she saw Matt and Wymack standing among the chaos of the harbor, attempting to charm the landlockers.

“You’d better be quick,” Allison said. “Your boy’s gonna get us kicked off before we get the big top up.”

Dan started muttering to herself as she pulled on her shoes and tied her bell around a belt loop. Allison stepped back and let her pass with a theatrical sweep of her arm. She climbed out of their coracle after Dan but sat on the edge while Dan made her way to the docks. Dan put herself between Wymack and Matt, hooking her arm around the latter’s waist. Allison’s gaze passed over them and further up the blackshore.

Northern islands were usually uneven, and this one dipped and stretched messily until the copse of pine trees obscured the other side of the island. Wymack had told them that this island was one of the conservative ones, where revivalism was popular. It meant their show would be more subdued, saving the subversion for another night. They had discussed their show the night before, and Wymack had called for a more subdued version of the maypole. Maypole dancing was once considered a sin, worshipping false gods under pagan superstition. Nowadays even the most devout revivalists were too fearful of crop failure to reject the gods of the land. 

Allison hoped that the clams would enjoy their show despite its simplicity. But judging by what was being loaded into the neighbouring trade boats, the fields here were mostly wheat, peas, and broad beans. It wasn’t what Allison was expecting; it was usually the southern islands that were better for farming crops, the northern islands better for animals. Allison let herself fantasise about bread with honeyed peas for dinner, or perhaps the clams wouldn’t be stingy with their hard-traded meat.

She took a deep breath, pretending that the smell of the trees were the food of her daydreams, and leaned back against the taut canvas of her coracle. The _Foxhole_ had been lucky to find space on the dock to anchor. As far as Allison could see the island was swarmed with messenger cutters and medic galleons and fruit-trading clippers. Junk traders sculled in the shallows; when flotsam washed ashore it belonged to the landlockers, but it was still free game if damplings could drag it up while it was still in the water.

The sun was starting to set, spreading swathes of orange and pink as it fell, and Allison was reminded of how Renee’s cheeks flushed under her attention. She closed her eyes, remembering the warmth of Renee’s hand within her own, the sound of the gentle sea around them, and—

Behind Allison there was a rustle of sliding canvas. Allison kept her eyes closed for another moment, wishing for a few more minutes of yearning, and then pushed up onto her elbows. She glanced over to see Seth appearing from his coracle. He looked better than he had last week, but his hair was still a mess. Seth noticed eyes on him and looked over. She didn’t say anything, only beckoned him over with a tilt of her head before ducking back into her coracle.

She started setting up her supplies. Comb, scissors, razor. The islands might not be her favourite places, but the Foxes needed to perform tonight if they wanted to eat. More than that, they needed the distraction. Despite the clean mainsail, Janie’s presence lurked in the corners of every coracle. She wasn’t there, not even as an apparition, but everytime one of them heard bones popping as they stretched, every aborted _“bet Janie could fit in that”_ directed at a small space or object, they thought of her. She was only a ghost of their dreams but that didn’t make her any less real.

Allison could only hope that the glinting lights and Dan’s triumphant shouts and the scratch of the gramophone would be enough to distract them. The stage would prepare them for the rest of their journey north, but first they needed to prepare for the stage.

Allison trusted the Foxes to dress themselves and paint their faces under Nicky’s guiding hand, but not Seth. Seth needed a gentler touch, a reminder that he was allowed to look after himself even though Janie was gone.

Seth dropped down into Allison’s coracle, and made his way over to sit atop Allison’s bunk. It was something he was good at, making a home in places he wasn’t invited into. He caught her gaze and flipped her off before hanging his head between his shoulders.

“No, come on,” she said, beckoning him over to her workstation with a twist of her wrist. It wasn’t much compared to the dressing area she had on her home island, but it was her favourite place in her coracle. It was where she took care of her friends.

He scrubbed his hands through his untidy hair but he didn’t look up. “What.”

“You look terrible. I can’t spend another second looking at your hair.”

“Then don’t look at it.”

Allison pursed her lips, pausing a moment to think before rising to her feet. She kicked at his feet until he looked up at her. She looked at his face, noting the dark circles and pale skin. Nothing a little makeup couldn’t fix. His hair though… she ran her hand through it, digging her fingernails into his scalp like she used to. When she brought his face up, his eyes were closed. She smoothed her thumb over the crease between his brows.

Seth sucked in a ragged breath. “Fuck you.”

Allison tugged on his hair. “No. You’ve done your moping. We all have. Now pull yourself together. You can still be sad while you work through your shit.”

He abruptly stood, and Allison had to take a step back to make room for him.

“Fuck you,” he said again, heated.

 _Good,_ she thought. Anger was something she could work with.

“We still have our jobs to do,” she said, “and I don’t plan on being the next to sink because we’re too hungry to stay clear-headed.”

Seth’s nostrils flared, and he pushed her until the back of her knees hit Dan’s bunk. He stopped.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Allison didn’t respond until he sat back down on her bed. He tugged on his hair again. Allison reached forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away from his head.

“Are you?” she asked. When he looked up, confused, she elaborated, “Sorry, I mean.”

Seth looked away, to the other end of the coracle rather than down at his bare feet. It was a while before he responded.

“I was supposed to get her,” he said. “She was my responsibility.”

Allison exhaled, and sat down beside him. She put her hand on his knee and squeezed. “You can’t take that on yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. I was right there! I should have—”

“You didn’t create the storm. You didn’t make the hole in our coracle. You didn’t fill it with water. You didn’t hold her down in it. You didn’t kill her.”

“I didn’t save her, either.”

“Neither did I. None of us did.”

Seth had no argument against that, so they sat in silence for a long time. Allison could hear the shouts of the other Foxes outside, something about the big top or the lanterns.

“I hear the clams on this island make decent pine-needle vodka,” Allison said after she started to think they could be late if she didn’t start on his hair soon.

“Can’t be worse than the shit Nicky makes,” Seth said.

Allison hummed conspiratorially. “I bet he uses the same shit you use to breathe flames.”

Seth raised an eyebrow, and his copper piercing shone in the lamplight. “Tonight’s booze says it’s not.”

Allison considered, and then reached up to tug at Seth’s hair again. “Only if you let me get rid of this.”

Seth bit on his lip for a moment before turning to look at her. His brown eyes finally seeped a little warmth. “Deal.”

Allison made quick work of preparing the castor oil, each intake of breath reminding her of home. After, she spread the oil across his scalp from temples to nape. She unsheathed her razor and as she moved the blade across the curve of his neck and scalp she thought about the barbs of the gracefeathers from Renee’s graceyard. She made her movements match that shape. After every five short, light strokes she wiped the razor on a scrap of cloth, leaving a half-moon of amber oil studded with hairs. The tracks left by her razor were as smooth as a fish’s belly. Seth’s hair would grow quickly, as it always did, but for now she could see the birthmark an inch above the shell of his ear. She wondered if Renee had any birthmarks, if that was what she hid under those gloves.

“What are you thinking about?” Seth asked.

“That if you have a birthmark here you must have died of a head-wound in your past life,” Allison answered smoothly. She pointed her razor at it. “Would be a shame if it happened again.”

Seth flipped her off with a small smile on his face and Allison tried to concentrate only on the blade, the oil, and the pale arcs of Seth’s newly revealed skin. They settled into a comforting silence as the razor feathered and scraped and feathered and scraped in her grasp. When she had shaved his head from nape to ears she then tilted his head back to do the rest. It wouldn’t take much longer, and there was something soothing about the rhythm of sliding her razor across his scalp in strokes of five.

She scraped the blade for the last time, then wiped Seth’s scalp with the clean side of the cloth. It was a fresh start, and it felt something like closure.

**sough** \ ˈsau̇ \ a moaning, whistling, or rushing sound as made by the wind in the trees or the sea

 **S** ince the crescent moon had settled high in the sky a few nights ago, the _Foxhole Circus’_ performances were scheduled earlier in the day than usual. It meant that by sunset they were gathered in the forecastle ready to eat. While the others were taking off their stage make-up and costumes, Aaron had ducked down into the hold to get some of the dried dates Katelyn had given him the last time the _Foxhole_ stopped at North-East 1. Though most of the crew were sleeping while he ate suhur before dawn, they all joined him for iftar after his prayers.

Nicky served endless cups of fire while they ate sweetened peas and seeded bread as payment for their performances. Aaron and Kevin happily traded their alcohol rations for extra helpings of bread, while Neil and Andrew squabbled over whether Andrew could give more of his share to Neil.

Allison took all of Seth’s drinks with a triumphant laugh, but left him one cup when his grumbling started to annoy her. Without drinks in his gut, Seth felt sleepy long before the others. Matt offered to take him back, but Allison had counted how many drinks he’d had. She shook her head, warning the others to leave her drinks alone, and took Seth back to his coracle. The others seemed grateful that she was looking after Seth; although they loved him, they grieved Janie too and caring for the bereaved was a burden that few people wanted to carry. Allison didn’t particularly want to carry it either, but she supposed she was the best equipped for it.

Seth waved her off when she delivered him at his coracle, snapping at her for babysitting him. Allison smiled when she clipped the canvas back in place. It was good to feel his energy again. She made her way back to the _Foxhole_ and slid back into her seat between Dan and Neil.

“How is he?” Neil asked.

Allison turned to him. “Do you care?”

Neil and Seth had never been friends. For the most part, they threw quips at each other in what would seem like friendly banter, but then angrily ripped each other a new one when one pushed a line.

“He’s crucial to the show.”

Allison huffed. _The show._ She had thought Kevin an oddity by obsession, but when Neil and his fox stowed away on the _Foxhole_ last year she had been corrected. Though, she supposed, they could both be oddities.

“No one else can do the Old World act,” Neil pointed out, which was true.

No one really knew what happened in the past—despite Kevin’s claims otherwise—but over time landlockers had learned to blame the rising seas and loss of land on the banks and big businesses, the relentless drive for more money. A long time ago, back in the days that seemed like they were from a storybook, they’d had a whole planet of fields and plains and deserts of forests. It seemed too strange to be true. Now they had to make do with the patched-up corners of gutted cities, clustering their homes around half-dead copses, to scrape what they could from their tiny footholds in a swallowing sea. They needed a scapegoat to be angry at, and Seth could provide it. Nicky fashioned fake money with dried kelp stitched and glued together, painted with the portraits of white men to appear like money was depicted in Kevin’s old history book. On stage, Seth used to rally around the stage in a grey two-piece suit and tie, a briefcase that would snap open and ‘money’ would spill out onto the deck. He would laugh, tearing the money in front of the landlockers’ shocked faces and then set it on fire.

Neil had a point; the northern islands always liked this act best. It was their history more than most.

Allison reached for one of her cups and drained it. She choked on the taste, burning down her throat with simmering anger reminiscent of northern landlockers.

“He’s doing better,” she said eventually. “I think he’s just getting the fight in him back.”

Matt must have been listening in from where he sat across from them. “He’s not sleeping, though.”

Allison nodded. She had expected that.

“We’ll be at North-West 2 soon,” Neil said. “We can stop at Betsy’s and get some sleeping herbs.”

Allison nodded again. She would offer to take Neil and get the herbs themselves, as she planned to see Betsy anyway, but she knew that most of the crew would want to talk to the mind healer. In the shadows of the seal-fat lamps she could see the dark eyes and patchy stubble and lines etched between eyebrows. Not everyone in the circus slept as soundly as she did.

They polished their plates and drank the rest of Nicky’s fire whiskey, and then Nicky clambered up onto the bench and then onto the table. Andrew hadn’t looked up from his cup, but he kept a steadying hand on Nicky’s calf so he didn’t fall.

“Dearly beloved,” Nicky said, taking on a theatrical tone to rival Dan’s. “We are gathered here today to celebrate my engagement to the love of my life—”

“The most beautiful man across the entire sea,” Dan cut in with a swoop of her arm. She knocked over several cups, and Matt quickly gathered them and set them outside of Dan’s reach.

“The very ground upon which he walks is sacred,” Allison added through her laughter.

“Flowers bloom upon his footprints,” Matt said with a grin.

“Y’all can shut. The fuck. Up,” Nicky said. He pointed at them sternly, though the effect was lessened when Nicky wasn’t actually pointing at any of them in particular. “Soon we’ll be at North-East 5, and I know y’all are counting down the days until we make it there.”

“Of course,” Matt said agreeably.

“My wedding,” Nicky continued, “will be the most glorious day of all our lives.” He raised his cup in a toast, grinning sloppily around at the Foxes until they raised their empty cups. “Erik’s letter arrived this morning,” he continued, which explained the impromptu toast. “The islanders are ready to set up everything by the World Tree, and I don’t need to remind you what an honour that is. We’ll have ribbons of all colours, and I know you’re thinking that they can’t possibly be even more bright and beautiful as the ones I already make for the _Foxhole Circus_ —”

“They better not be,” Kevin interrupted. “If I find out you’re holding out on us—”

“Relax, relax,” Nicky said, holding his hands up in placation. He kept one hand raised while he drained the remainder of his fire whiskey. “They’ll be just as good, which means they’ll be perfect. And after the wedding I will give you all of the ribbons and leaf-crowns your heart could desire. Think of the maypole, Kevin. You’ll be glad to be rid of me if that’s what you get in return.”

Allison scoffed. “If you think you’ll get off that easy.”

Aaron spoke up for the first time that night from where he was sitting between Nicky and Kevin. “You’re going to write daily,” he said. “You made me promise to do the same so don’t back out of your end now.”

There was a slight commotion from the other side of the table. By most standards, a commotion would entail something a little more noisy and a little more dramatic, but when it came to the Monsters, any reaction was a commotion. Andrew didn’t react at all, which was to be expected—sometimes Allison thought he was only present ten percent of the time—but Neil was visibly annoyed.

“That’s a little rich,” he said cooly, “coming from you.”

The _Foxhole_ must have crested a large wave, for the wood creeked around them. Over the soughing of the wind and waves Allison could make out the scrape of metal on metal as the coracles bumped into each other.

“Neil,” Andrew said lowly. How Neil could discern any emotion from that monotone, Allison didn’t know. All she did know was that Neil turned at the sound of his voice and deflated. The _Foxhole_ settled once more as the wave passed. Everyone turned their gaze away from Neil and Aaron and back toward Nicky, who now seemed a little deflated too.

“Your wedding will be glorious, Nicky,” Dan said.

He seemed to light up once more, and took her comment as permission to tell her about what Erik and his family were doing to prepare for the wedding.

**cordage** \ ˈkȯr-dij \ the ropes in the rigging of a ship

 **A** llison lay on the deck on the _Foxhole,_ basking in the sun while the others worked around her. She had already completed her task of securing the cordage, and now got to soak in satisfaction. She wasn’t entirely at ease, though. The _Foxhole_ had just left North-West 2, and Betsy’s words still echoed every thought. Allison had talked to her about Janie, about how she was still waiting for the stone to drop, for grief to kick in. Betsy had said that it could be a case of shock, that she could be making sure her Foxes were safe before she gave herself time to process her grief. She also said that maybe Allison would never grieve Janie, not in the way Allison expected herself too. There was the possibility that Allison had never grown close to Janie, not emotionally. It wasn’t that she didn’t _care_ that Janie was gone, it just never settled in as a loss she had to grieve over.

 _“I’m not Kevin,”_ Allison had said. _“I didn’t grow up on the Evermore. Nothing’s happened in my life to give reason for me acting like a heartless bitch.”_

 __

 __

 _“And that’s where I would disagree with you.”_

Allison hadn’t responded. She hadn’t known what to say.

 _“You told me last year that the whole island raised you when you were a young child, but you didn’t have one consistent adult in your life,”_ Betsy had said. She didn’t continue until Allison nodded in confirmation. _“When you are that young, consistency is paramount. It grounds our emotional growth.”_

Allison had laughed, sharp and cutting. _“I think anyone would take parents too busy to love them over Riko Moriyama for a foster brother.”_

 __

 __

 _“Maybe so. But I would tell you that a child who suffered physical abuse from the age of six would be better equipped to deal with their trauma than a child who suffered emotional neglect at the age of two.”_

Allison knew that there was more to Kevin’s trauma than Riko breaking his hand, but it stuck with her regardless. She couldn’t remember much of her childhood, especially from when she was young. She remembered being ten, and the pressure to be perfect starting to stick to her like barnacles. She remembered being twelve, and thinking if she gorged herself on the island’s produce then everyone would remember how rich and powerful her family were. She remembered being fifteen, seeing how her fellow islanders lusted after the performers from circus boats, and comparing herself to their half-starved bodies.

Allison filtered out those thoughts and focused on the sound of the sea around her, of her crew bustling around the deck and coracles. She wanted to go up to the crow’s nest and feel the wind on her face, to feel closer to the sky than a human had ever been before, but Andrew and Neil were up there and she didn’t think she would survive the consequences of interrupting them. Neil was most of Andrew’s impulse control and if Neil was as pissed off as Andrew he would probably cheer him on.

It wasn’t long before she heard the splash of Nicky’s return to the surface. He climbed onto the _Foxhole_ and set down his lung and sack of goods with a light _thud._ Allison watched as colourful sea plants spilled out onto the deck alongside pearls, strange bones, and shards of coloured glass. With the rocking of the ship, something rolled across the deck and Allison stopped it from dropping back into the sea by holding her arm out across its path. The glass was cool to the touch.

It was a strange shape, oddly warped like it had been spun in its formation. It wasn’t as clear as the other pieces of glass Nicky had brought with him, with bubbles and uneven thickness. But it was undeniably beautiful.

It also had something trapped inside.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Nicky shouted, making his way over.

Allison held the glass bottle out of his reach and pushed a hand to his chest to hold him away.

“Finders keepers,” she said.

“Exactly. _I_ found it.”

“And I stole it.”

Nicky struggled to get past her but Allison held fast. The muscles in her arms weren’t entirely for show.

But Nicky was as stubborn as the rest of the Foxes when he wanted something, and Allison didn’t have the patience.

“I’ll let you paint my face for the next show if I can have it,” she said.

Nicky stopped struggling and considered. “Why do you want it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.”

He pursed his lips as he thought, and a moment later he stepped back. “Fine. But I’m going to make you ugly.”

Allison flicked her fingers at him dismissively. “You can try.”

She looked at the glass bottle again. She tried a second time to find some kind of seal, but when she was sure there wasn’t one, she opted for the second plan:

She threw it down onto the deck, and it smashed. Shards of glass littered the deck, but the sound was almost drowned out by Nicky’s shriek.

“What was that for?” he asked.

Allison ignored him as she bent down to pick up the newly released item. It was a roll of oat coloured fabric, soft to the touch and slightly damp, though she couldn’t imagine how water found its way inside a sealed container. The glass had warped its appearance too. The roll of fabric inside had seemed small in size before, but now released into the open air Allison thought that it was thick enough to be as tall as herself once fully unfurled.

“What’s that?” Nicky asked, but he wasn’t the only one curious. The others—except for Neil and Andrew, who were still up in the crow’s nest—had gathered around to see what the smashed glass had been, and they all wore curious expressions.

Allison started to unroll the fabric, hoping to find out, and unveiled a single feather. Nicky made a grumble of disappointment, clearly hoping for something more fanciful now that Allison had broken the glass. She held it from its quill, turning it and watching as the colours shifted from green to blue. It was like holding a piece of the sea between her fingertips.

“Is that a feather?” Neil asked as he made her way over from the mainmast. Andrew seemed content to stay in the crow’s nest and watch from above.

Matt nodded. “From a grace. It’s for remembrance. It shows that no distance, no amount of water, between two people will make them forget. You give a gracefeather to someone to say that you remember them.”

At this, Allison remembered the feel of a grace within her hands, feeling its soft feathers and quick-beating heart. She remembered warm leather between her fingers.

“It was on the bottom of the sea,” Aaron said with a snort. “What does that show?”

“I didn’t find it underwater,” Nicky said. “I found it on the surface. It was probably on a messenger boat some time ago.” He shoved Aaron’s shoulder. “Besides, it’s romantic. I bet you’d send Katelyn a gracefeather if you had one.”

The tips of Aaron’s ears grew red and he shoved Nicky back as he made his way back to the kitchen, ignoring the coos from the others.

Allison ignored them all as she stepped back to the spot she had been sunning in, and sat down. _You give a gracefeather to someone to say that you remember them._ The words echoed in her mind like a siren song.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe it had fallen off a messenger boat, like Nicky had said. Allison knew how often parcels and letters were lost; she’d overheard the lamenting of Nicky often enough when Erik’s messages arrived out of order or when Nicky’s gifts simply didn’t arrive. She knew the days Aaron was happier and angrier depending on the days the messenger boats arrive.

She looked back at the fabric and tried to find something else. If it were just the feather; why waste the fabric? The glass was airtight. The feather would have been safe in there unwrapped. She ran it between her fingers, unrolling it inch by inch as she searched for ink.

There.

Any suggestions on what I do with dried lavender?

Renee’s handwriting was scratchy and untaught. Allison was glad her back was turned to her crew. She couldn’t fight the smile on her face and she wouldn’t know what to tell them if they asked.

And it wasn’t just ink. Dried buds of lavender scattered into her lap. She scooped them up and put them into her pocket, thinking of the empty jar she had leftover from finishing the dandelion sap. She looked at the gracefeather again for a moment before heading back to her coracle.

At her desk she kept a sea sponge littered with needles of varying sizes. Allison plucked one out and used it to pierce a hole through the quill of the gracefeather. Beside the sea sponge was a reel of navy thread that Allison usually used to ornament her braids. Allison’s braids were made of white yarn, the material difficult enough to source that she only changed them once every couple months. White was a neutral enough colour to match most performance themes, and coloured coils and cuffs could be switched around regularly. Allison cut a length of twine and threaded one end through the gracefeather. Once knotted and looped around her neck, the gracefeather rested over her heart.

 _I remember you too,_ she thought.

Later that evening, Allison sat on her bed with the seal-fat lamps burning. Over her lap she placed the piece of metal Dan used to form a makeshift desk for when she wrote up potential performance acts. Dan was currently talking the next performance over with Wymack, so Allison was alone.

She tapped the tip of the gracefeather to her lips as she thought. She knew that she wouldn’t see the messenger boat for a while, but she wanted to reply to Renee’s message as soon as she could. She felt impatient with it.

She knew what she would say; lavender could stimulate circulation, it was anti-fungal and used for irritated scalps. But the best part about lavender was the smell.

Allison dipped the nib of her pen into a deep green ink Nicky had left over from the previous week’s performance. It bled a little into the fabric as she wrote.

Crush some into an oil and dilute it with another oil. Apply directly to your pulse points and scalp.

She wiped the ink off the end of her pen before setting it back in its pot. She left the ink on the fabric to dry while she went about her routine before going to bed, which took a long time as she was quite strict with her skincare. She had to be, considering how often she coated on stage makeup. When she saw how little lemon she had left, she made a note to share the last portion with Kevin so they could make face masks together.

It was a while before she went back to bed, but it was long enough for the fabric to change.

It was the same soft oat coloured fabric, with flecks of impurities. It still had Renee’s initial message, asking about what to do with her new abundance of lavender. It still had Allison’s reply.

But now, there was a third message.

The fabric hadn’t moved. No one had entered the coracle. There was no way for another line of text to appear there. But there it was, underneath Allison’s looping calligraphy. The ink looked fresh, and Allison watched as spiders of it bled into the fabric. She watched as ink patterns became letters, and watched as letters became words.

May I send some to you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave renee the papyrus font.... i'm so sorry


	10. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is better with creator's style turned on!

**becalm** \ ˈbi-ˈkäm \ to leave (a sailing vessel) unable to move due to lack of wind

 **A** fter sending off the glass bottle, the following days passed by slowly, as if they too were as becalmed as the Resting parties who came and went. After a while all the bodies, the mourning families, and the Restings started to blur into one. She couldn’t remember how to live in this monotony anymore. She felt on edge, needing to know whether Allison had received her message or not. She tried to focus on cleaning her lighthouse and tipping dead graces into the water, on polishing the cages until night crept in. Every night she rowed back to her lighthouse and checked to see if there was a reply on the other roll of fabric.

That wasn’t until eight days later. It had become a routine to roll out the fabric and reveal her own handwritten message, which appeared moments after writing it on the fabric’s twin. Renee expected, like every other night, to _only_ see her message, so it was a surprise when she saw another line of ink underneath, even when that was the reason she was looking in the first place.

Crush some into an oil and dilute it with another oil. Apply directly to your pulse points and scalp.

The handwriting was neat, composed, and beautiful. It felt fitting. Everything Renee could remember about Allison was neat, composed, and beautiful. It was hard to imagine her living the life as a dampling. But then Renee remembered seeing calloused palms beneath her own. Allison was beautiful, but she was strong too.

And, Renee thought, resourceful.

She made her way down to the kitchen, and set out the pestle and mortar on the table alongside the jar of dried lavender buds. It didn’t take long to crush them, and when mixed with sunflower oil from the latest supply boat, she smeared it on the inside of her wrist. Renee brought her wrist up to her face and inhaled. She hadn’t come across the scent before she became a gracekeeper. At its first shipment she didn’t have a clue what to do with it, so she kept it in its jar and left it for weeks.

Stephanie was the one to show her how to make tea from the dried buds. It wasn’t quite to Renee’s taste, but it was better than filtered salt water. And she liked the stories Stephanie liked to tell her, about how lavender was mixed with garlic and vinegar to evade capture during a burglary in times of illness.

Islanders were keen to believe in the magic of the land, to believe their trees and plants dictated the balance of the world. It was a convenient mask for the power of the sea.

Each island had their own tales of the mystical, but Renee wanted to know what Allison knew or believed. Her message indicated reality, that lavender was truly just a flower with a pretty smell, but written messages could easily be misread. Perhaps she wanted Renee to have a protection charm.

Renee supposed she could always just ask, but she couldn’t predict her reaction. There was always the chance that Allison would report her to an island council, to condemn her to a fate much worse than a lighthouse.

Or, Renee could keep it a secret, to wait for the fabric to return with the messenger boat. To leave it to fate.

But could she trust fate? It was nice in theory, to have the natural balance of the world dictate reality. Perhaps Allison’s piece of fabric would never return to her, and their chance meeting was left at that. Chance.

Renee never liked things that were outside of her control, never had. She liked reality to be tangible, to gather it into her hands and feel its flickering lifeforce thrumming under her fingertips.

She wouldn’t surrender that control to the world, but she could surrender it to Allison.

It was a choice, a question. A leap into the void of the ocean.

 _Am I safe with you?_

Renee wrote her reply underneath, knowing that the ink would settle into two pieces of fabric at once, despite the oceans between them.

She had leapt into the void, and could only hope that Allison would catch her.

**cutter** \ ˈkə-tər \ a single-masted fore-and-aft rigged sailing vessel

 **O** ver the following weeks, a new routine shortly began to settle. Renee wrote to Allison every night, and every morning she would wake to a response. It wasn’t the same as talking, it didn’t fill the silence like conversation would, but with her records playing softly in the background Renee liked to imagine that Allison was there with her, just in another room. When Renee sat on her balcony she liked to imagine Allison sitting beside her. She remembered what she looked like under the light of the moon, the sea surrounding the two of them and only the stars overhead. It felt like the sea and the stars were watching over them, cocooning them in that moment.

Renee trusted the stars. They were more reliable than anything else in the world. All the answers to the world lay up there, to those who could see. The stars were what damplings relied upon to find safe port, each constellation leading them to land like a trail of breadcrumbs. Renee often found herself asking all her questions to them, hoping for an answer but needing just to ask. To seek guidance. Now she found herself with more questions for them. She gave her prayers to the stars and the tides, asking them to watch over the _Foxhole_ and its crew. She wanted to see Allison safe, even if safe did not mean at her side.

She asked the sea to keep Allison safe too, though that was not through prayer. Everytime she went out in her rowing boat, Renee would hover her bare hand over the surface of the water. She would inhale. Exhale. Put her hand in the water, feeling its cool caress over her skin. She closed her eyes. She could feel the heartbeat of the sea, the pulse of its currents. Through her closed eyelids she could feel the world beneath her, every branching line of anemone, every nodule of coral, every hard lump of rock and mussel. She felt every wave surge through her, rising and rising and then—

And then she would open her eyes. Pull her hand from the water and wipe it dry on her trousers or skirt and pull on her gloves once more. She would return to her lighthouse, leaving the glow of polished gracecages in her rowing boat’s small wake, and write to Allison.

Renee kept waiting for Allison to ask how it was possible, how they could write to each other without the use of the messenger boat, without having to do anything with the fabric at all. But the question never came. Renee still didn’t know what Allison thought or knew about magic in the world, but maybe Allison had suspected it all along and the messages had only confirmed her suspicions.

It was two days later when the messenger boat returned. It was earlier than Renee had expected; Hawking had said he wouldn’t return for another six months and it had only been six weeks. It wasn’t Hawking on the cutter, though. It was Jeremy. He pulled off his hat when he saw her on the porch and waved at her with it, his grin blinding in the midday sun. The messenger boats were meant to sail by night, but Jeremy always said he preferred the day. He had told her that people tended to be more talkative during the day, as if conversation were a sapling that just needed a little sunlight to grow.

Without a message to send, or one she was expecting to arrive by messenger, Renee didn’t plan on greeting Jeremy with more than a wave back, but he anchored his boat and started to gather up his loop of rope to dock. Renee didn’t want to make him wait so she didn’t change into her dress. She had her gloves on, and that would have to be enough. She took her rowing boat out to the dock, and Jeremy held out his hand to help her up. Jeremy wasn’t weak by any means—no one lasted for long on the seas without a little muscle—but Renee easily outweighed him thanks to a childhood with the Bloodsharks and several years rowing Resting parties back and forth across the graceyard. She found his offer of support charming all the same, and wondered how he was still so polite in a world like this. He made her want to be a better person.

“Good morning,” Jeremy said. “Or is it afternoon yet?”

He should know this as a sailor; it was how he navigated the world. Perhaps he was just trying to be personable. Renee supposed that time in the doldrums did run differently, and it was easy to lose track of it.

“It has just passed noon,” she said with a smile.

“Ah. I must have just missed it.”

Renee waited for Jeremy to tell her why he had docked at her lighthouse, and she didn’t have to wait long. “I have a message for you,” he said.

When Jeremy handed the fabric parcel over to Renee, its design resembled a pouch more than it did a usual message roll. When she turned it over in her hands she saw the looping calligraphy of Allison’s hand.

Renee Walker  
Graceyard 9

“Thank you,” Renee said to Jeremy, though she didn’t look up at him. She then remembered that that was rude, and offered him another smile when she met his gaze.

“No problem,” Jeremy said with an easy grin. “Have a nice day, won’t you?” He made for the loop of rope tying his boat to her dock, and she nodded. She kept both hands on her message as she stood on the dock. She didn’t row back to her lighthouse—message in her lap—until Jeremy’s boat had turned around and drifted toward the horizon.

Renee climbed up to her bedroom and placed the message on the off-white sheets covering her bed. The fabric Allison had used was a coral pink, with loose threads where buttons or ornamentation had been pulled or fallen off. Some threads had been knotted together to keep the bundle tied. When Renee teased them apart with her fingers, the cloth fell open and its content was revealed.

Renee couldn’t place the name of the tree in which the leaf came from; it wasn’t one native to Renee’s home island. It wasn’t often that Renee—situated in the doldrums for seven years—saw a green so vivid. It was beautiful. She hesitantly reached out and picked up the leaf by its stem. Held up to the beam of sunlight seeping in through the bedroom window, the green grew even brighter. Renee thought of the merchant boats that sailed under green canvas, a promise of prosperity and auspicious beginnings. She placed the leaf gently down, and unfurled the fabric to reveal Allison’s message.

A gift from the remarkably ungenerous North-West 2. You wouldn’t believe what I had to bribe Dan with to get her to occupy Nicky while I snapped a precious leaf off a healthy tree.

Renee had to bite down on her bottom lip to suppress the smile. But she remembered that she was alone, and there was no one to witness it, so she let herself smile fully. She pulled off one of her gloves, and wrapped the fabric of Allison’s message around her hand with Allison’s handwriting pressed against her skin. Around and around the fabric wove, until she tucked the last inch underneath another wrapping. With her new glove of cotton and ink, Renee brought her hand up to her mouth and pressed her lips to her knuckles. She kept the fabric wrapped around her hand as she walked across her bedroom to her writing desk, and unrolled the length of fabric bearing the rest of their messages. She added her reply at the end.

I received your message. I’ve never seen a green so bright. I suppose your opportunities to travel mean you see many beautiful things, and I think you deserve to see all of them. I hope Dan’s price wasn’t too high. She seems like a reasonable woman.

Allison’s reply came surprisingly fast. Renee looked outside her window, and saw that the sky was starting to darken. She supposed that if the _Foxhole_ had only recently left North-West 2 then they wouldn’t arrive at North-West 3 for several days. With no islands to perform to, the Foxes must spend their evenings on their ship or in their coracles. She supposed that it must not be unusual for the performers to retire early on occasion. But regardless of Allison’s reasoning for being in her coracle and checking her roll of fabric for a new message, Renee would not complain.

Dan’s reasonable about serious things. But she’s as ridiculous as they come if it’s anything to do with a bet.

Oh?

She put two months’ alcohol rationing on whether or not Neil would finally let Kevin train him on the trapeze.

An impossible feat, I’m presuming?

Beyond impossible. Dan’s judgement is clouded with optimism.

And they continued to write to each other deeper and deeper into the night, their inks beginning to ornate the roll of fabric in a pattern like waves. Renee liked that they could talk so quickly, without waiting until the following day for a response. It felt more fluid, like the back and forth of gentle waves on a beach. Everything became less formal, more playful and teasing, and it felt like they had broken some unspoken barrier of courting. It felt like conversation, without the records playing in the background. It felt like talking and having someone talk back.

So when Allison told her that she had to go to sleep—else she spend the following day in a haze—Renee suggested that they did this again. That they go back to their separate beds miles apart, and write to each other for a few hours. Allison agreed, and Renee climbed into bed that night with a smile fixed on her face.

The following day Renee had cleaned her gracecages with a vigour she hadn’t seen in a long time, not since her early days after arriving. She had been full of anger and bitterness, but now her energy stemmed from excitement and anticipation for the evening. She felt like if she completed her tasks quicker then the night would arrive quicker. It wasn’t true, of course. She completed her tasks earlier than expected and it only meant that she paced back and forth across her bedroom floor. She had already written her message to Allison, in case she too were early. But Allison’s reply came half an hour later, explaining that though she would have loved to spend all afternoon in her coracle waiting for Renee, the Foxes had had landlockers to perform to.

Renee found Allison’s stories of daily life in the _Foxhole Circus_ fascinating. She liked the idea of an ever shifting routine, but with coordinates of tasks as reliable as the stars. She longed to hear the stories of their travels, and she could hear Allison’s voice in her head as she read them. That voice echoed in her dreams as she slept, in her daydreams as she worked. It visited her mind as often as her own. Half her thoughts were of Allison, and every day they felt more and more real. Talking to her so often was building an entire picture in her mind of the woman Allison truly was, and not just some rose-tinted fantasy born from a single meeting.

Allison told her of the performances hosted by the _Foxhole Circus._ Each night’s performance had a story of its own, and the way Allison wrote about them meant Renee felt like she had been there too, standing with her behindcurtains and watching her crew perform for the island of landlockers and scatterings of damplings.

Renee told her of the Resting parties, and passed on the stories they had told their gracekeeper. Allison always tried to pry their confessions out of Renee, but Renee held fast. She was tempted, of course, as she was tempted by many things. She wanted to please Allison, to make her happy, but she knew that her pursuit of goodness was more important. Allison seemed to understand, or if she didn’t understand she told her that she was at least as equally impressed by Renee’s dedication. And then she would offer something else in exchange for the secrets, which made Renee laugh and refuse again and again, until Allison wrote some teasing comment that made Renee blush or splutter in protest. Renee still hadn’t figured out the pattern in which Allison worked, but she found that she enjoyed the process of discovery as much as she enjoyed the idea of finally figuring it out.

Renee told her about the tales Alvarez and Laila had talked about, the gossip from the other side of the world. When Jeremy next arrived at the doldrums, Renee had been visiting Jean’s graceyard. By the bouquet of silk flowers in Jeremy’s hand as he pushed open Jean’s front door, Renee doubted he had expected Jean to already have a guest. She hadn’t stayed for much longer. She wished them both a good afternoon and asked Jeremy to stop by her lighthouse before he left for the archipelagos. The following day she gave him Allison’s coral pink fabric, with Allison and the Foxhole Circus’ address written on the other side. Inside the fabric, sealed with beeswax to keep it dry, nested shavings of dried marshmallow root from the latest supply boat. Jeremy had accepted the meager payment she could offer, stating that he was ‘heading in that direction anyway’. Renee doubted this was true, considering the usual routes of the messenger boats, but she smiled and thanked him and that seemed to be enough.

The messenger boat wouldn’t catch up with the _Foxhole _for another week or so, but Renee didn’t plan on spoiling the surprise. So she kept her gift a secret while she read Allison’s stories and musings, sat cross-legged on her bed with only the moonlight to see by as she wrote back her replies on the fabric draped across her knee. They talked of the Foxes’ bets, and Renee let Allison drag her into a few of them herself, promising to send over some of her own ‘rations’ if she lost. The latest series of bets seemed to revolve around an upcoming event the Foxes were to attend, though Renee didn’t quite grasp the concept of it. When the topic at hand died down, Renee took the opportunity to ask.__

 _ ___

 _ ___

__What is the Brethren Banquet, exactly?__

 _ ___

__It’s supposed to be a biannual meeting for the Brethren Court where damplings gather to discuss governing, but really it’s just a hotspot for gossip. Eight years ago everyone was talking about Kevin and his bastard for an adopted brother, Riko. We all thought Riko was holding Kevin back, and Tetsuji caught wind of it. He pitted them against each other in their next show, and__

Renee couldn’t wait for Allison to finish her message. She already knew the answer.

 _ ___

 _ ___

__And Riko hurt Kevin.__

It was a few beats before Allison set her quill to ink again.

 _ ___

 _ ___

__How did you know that?__

 _ ___

__I was there. It was the first circus show I ever saw. I didn’t realise it was Kevin. I didn’t recognise him when you all came to my graceyard.__

 _ ___

__Kevin’s doing a lot better since he left the Ravens. He doesn’t talk about his time on the Evermore, but I doubt that was the first time Riko hurt him.__

 _ ___

__How did he get away?__

 _ ___

__Wymack. He took Kevin and his mom onto the Foxhole and started the Foxhole Circus. We’ve been avoiding the Evermore ever since, but performance routes have got to cross at some point. Neil’s probably going to kill someone at the banquet this year. I can’t wait. I hope it’s Riko.__

Renee wondered whether she was supposed to suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. Was it awful, to wish death on someone like that? It felt like justice, but so had killing her own abuser. She didn’t want to think of that, so she asked why no one had stopped Riko, and why no one else knew what Riko had done. Allison then told her about the complexities of the Moriyama family, as powerful as they were splintered. She told her about the theories the Foxes had, about why Riko and Tetsuji were desperately trying to reclaim Kevin even though they were insistent that he could not perform again. Allison didn’t seem worried though, and explained that it was because Andrew had promised to protect Kevin and his family, and Allison believed him. Renee remembered the blond man with the black wrappings around his forearms. She remembered his blank face, and wondered what he had done to earn Allison’s faith in him. She wondered, if Andrew had agreed to protect his family, who was protecting the rest of the Foxes? Renee knew the dangers the world held, and hoped that someone would be able to step in and shield Allison and her friends from it all when those dangers arose once more.

 _ ___

 _ ___

__**schooner** \ ˈskü-nər \ a fore-and-aft rigged sailing vessel having at least two masts, with a foremast that is usually smaller than the other masts__

 **A** ndrew felt that the _Brethren Banquet_ had been entertaining, to say the least. Until it all fell apart, of course. Neil, as usual, could be found at the centrepoint of that chaos. Andrew hadn’t heard whatever it was that made Neil throw a punch at Riko, but he didn’t see the point in asking; it was a surprise to no-one that the _Foxhole Circus’_ resident loud mouth had managed to get himself and the rest of the Foxes thrown out of the banquet before the festivities had begun. Andrew had wondered whether it had been intentional, an attempt to spare Andrew from the boredom of the night in a surplus of unwanted company, but then he remembered the ridiculous speeches Dan and Kevin had given, and how Neil’s eyes had practically glistened as he listened. Neil was pathetically obsessive, but he was still… well. He was still Andrew’s. If anything, Neil’s poor decision making was just a reflection of what Andrew chose to put up with every single day and would continue to put up with for as long as Neil let him.

 __

Andrew stretched out his hand across the mattress of his bunk, but his fingers didn’t meet Neil’s soft shirt or sleep-warm skin. He opened his eyes, squinting in the morning sun, but Neil wasn’t lying beside him, curled up on his side facing Andrew like he usually was. Neil tended to wake before Andrew, but he usually woke Andrew up when he did. Andrew supposed that Neil must have woken early enough to not want to wake him; it had happened a few times before. When Andrew glanced over to the other bunk he found that Kevin was also absent. Ever since he stopped drinking he’d taken to waking early and berating the rest of the crew for not doing the same. He’d quickly learned to not try it with Andrew less he wanted one of the _Foxhole Circus’_ crew to withdraw all possible help.

 __

Andrew glanced downward and confirmed that Neil’s fox was still curled up at the foot of their bunk, sound asleep with her tail draped over her snout. He left her be and climbed out of bed, pulling on his armbands and finding a second shirt to pull over the vest he slept in. He noted a glass jar of dried plants on one of their shelves, the shelf Andrew had claimed as his own. He hadn’t put the jar there himself—he didn’t even know what the herbs were—but since Neil was the only one bold enough to move Andrew’s things he figured that he could ask for answers later. After rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he climbed out of his coracle.

 __

The _Foxhole Circus_ had left North-West 3 in the early hours of the morning, not wanting to stay on the same island as the _Evermore_ for a minute longer. Andrew and Neil had gone back to their coracle early while Kevin stayed on deck to help navigate the _Foxhole_ out of port. They had made the most of the time alone, and had fallen asleep before Kevin returned.

 __

When Andrew unclipped the canvas top of the coracle, he found the sky was blue and bright. Andrew winced. It would take the good part of an hour to adjust to the day, and he needed a head start by joining Neil and Kevin for breakfast with the rest of the crew. He took his portion of leftovers—a few salted white beans, crisped chicken skin, and half a slice of toasted rye bread—from Abby and followed the gangway further to the forecastle. Before pushing open the door, he pocketed the rye bread so he could eat it later with some of the honey Bee had given him before they left North-West 2.

 __

Andrew found almost all of the Foxes scattered around the forecastle with their breakfasts in their laps and cards and cups in their hands. Almost all of the Foxes, because Neil wasn’t with them. Andrew paused in the doorway as he scanned the room for a splash of auburn among the creams and browns of the _Foxhole_ and its crew, but when he knew for sure that Neil wasn’t among them he took his breakfast and sat opposite Kevin and Aaron.

 __

“Where is he.”

 __

Aaron ignored him but Kevin looked up with a spoonful of beans poised an inch from his mouth. When he saw Andrew’s expression, he shrugged and lowered his spoon. “Haven’t seen him this morning.”

 __

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Andrew said.

 __

“I don’t know the answer. Maybe he’s with Allison.”

 __

Andrew looked back over to the others, and his gaze snagged on Reynolds as she flipped the ends of her blue headscarf over her shoulder. Andrew noted that she was still wearing that gracefeather around her neck. Andrew didn’t know the significance of it, nor did he particularly care, but he had always preferred to know too much than too little. With a memory like his, it was almost always the case anyway.

 __

But Andrew knew that Neil wasn’t with Reynolds. He knew that Neil wouldn’t have sought her company for another few days after he had found out that Reynolds had started a bet over whether Neil would start a fight at the _Brethren Banquet._ She had been right, which probably pissed Neil off more than anything.

 __

Andrew finished his breakfast as he thought through all the possible locations Neil would be. He could have been with Wymack, who was currently absent, discussing an upcoming routine or being berated for last night. But that was the case then Dan would have been there too, and she was currently sat with Reynolds and Gordon.

 __

He could have been with Matt, and that seemed like the most logical explanation, except he then overheard Dan telling Gordon to check up on Matt. Andrew didn’t know what was wrong with him, so he listened into their conversation and found that Matt had eaten something off. Gordon laughed and said it was more likely he’d drank too much, and Andrew tuned out of their tedious conversation.

 __

Andrew started to consider the likelihood of Neil falling into the sea in the middle of the night. Neil had always seemed much more balanced on the land, despite spending the majority of his life at sea. It had been this, among everything else that made up Neil Josten, that drew Andrew to him. Neil had been an enigma, a mystery with bared teeth and a sharp tongue.

 __

He started to feel the first barbs of panic claw in his stomach when he realised that Neil wasn’t the only one missing from the forecastle. Nicky’s consciously loud voice was absent among the boisterousness of the Foxes. Andrew looked around to confirm it, but Aaron was complaining about the food with Kevin. Aaron had traded his portion of chicken skin for Kevin’s beans, but he missed the crops of the southern archipelagos. It was usually Nicky who’d lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on when it came to Aaron’s griping. One taste of landlocker life with some pretty clam and his brother had lost all of his rationality. Nicky usually didn’t mind listening to Aaron complain, liked it, even. He had that pathetic urge to bond over anything and everything as if making up for lost time. Andrew wondered what was so pressing that Nicky would skip a chance of ‘family bonding’.

 __

Andrew swallowed the last bite of his rye bread and left his plate on the table for Kevin to clean up. He ignored the latter’s protests and walked out of the forecastle, across the deck of the _Foxhole,_ and climbed over the side.

 __

It wasn’t a steep drop, and nowhere near as high up as the crow’s nest, but Andrew’s stomach still bottomed-out when he glanced down at the sea below him. He ignored it, and pulled himself onto the chain connected to the coracles. Looping his legs over, he traversed the chain, not letting go until his feet hovered over the canvas top of Nicky and Aaron’s coracle. The top was unclipped, and Andrew could smell the honey-spiced perfume and dusty fabric, along with something else, something unidentifiable. It was close to the smell of rotting fruit, oversweet and pungent. Andrew ignored the strange smell and dropped down into the coracle. His feet landed with a _thud,_ but the sea was a noisy place to be and Andrew wasn’t surprised that no-one cried out in surprise.

 __

Every coracle of the _Foxhole’_ s fleet was the same size, though this one felt infinitely smaller due to the clothing rail that stretched like a spine through its length, strung with dozens of circus costumes. He’d dropped down into Aaron’s side of the coracle, plain and tidy. His box of messages from Katelyn were tucked under his bunk, where pathetic love confessions mixed with Universalism prayers and their respective positions for Aaron to memorise. Andrew briefly considered tipping its content into the sea but decided he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the repercussions. Hiding Aaron’s shoes was one thing, but they were easily found and otherwise replaceable. Aaron was pathetically sentimental and there was a more than small chance that he would never forgive Andrew. Andrew didn’t much care for forgiveness, but it would be hard to keep an eye on his brother from across the sea when Aaron refused to write to him. Andrew still found it amusing to wind Aaron up, but he’d promised to play nice with Katelyn in exchange for Aaron staying on the _Foxhole_ until Nicky’s wedding. The messages stayed untouched.

 __

Andrew pushed aside leather and cotton to create a gap in the clothing rail. He knew Nicky was on the other side; sequins gleamed back at Andrew every time Nicky moved something along the rail. Andrew resisted putting his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. He stepped through the gap in the clothing and discovered the source of the strange smell: before him stood a table bolted to the deck, and on it lay a bowl of fish guts, scooped-out mussel shells, and other inedible animal parts. Whatever Abby and Aaron couldn’t fashion into a meal, Nicky ground up for dyes. Andrew had seen too much of the world to be squeamish, but his stomach still churned at the sight. He looked away and found Nicky holding up a shimmering piece of dark cloth into the single beam of sunlight that broke across the dusty embrace of the costumes. When he lowered it, he then startled violently at the sight of Andrew a few feet from him. Andrew watched on, unimpressed. This was why Andrew had promised himself to look out for him: Nicky was painfully oblivious.

 __

”God, Andrew! Stop sneaking up on people,” Nicky said breathily, hand pressed over his heart as if to contain it in his chest. A few moments later, voice audibly steadier, he asked, “What do you want? I don’t have any more black dyes for you if you’ve stolen something else.” He then looked up at the canvas in thought. “Though I did find something Neil might like. Hang on.” He then headed further into the coracle, ducking and bending expertly around the swathes of hanging fabric that littered his side of the coracle.

 __

Nicky kept up a constant monologue as he puttered around the coracle and as Andrew refused to give way to panic. Andrew’s fingertips tapped against the rough material of his trousers, searching for something tangible and steady to anchor himself on. He needed to be in control. He needed to find Neil.

 __

“I’ve been experimenting with the leftover bits from the chicken hearts,” Nicky said, oblivious to the stormy sea in Andrew’s mind. “Not much colour in them, but they do mix nicely with the razor-clam shells. Here, look at this.” He pulled out a white shirt that Andrew recognised. It was the one Neil wore for his funeral dance that Reynolds had lent him. It had gone back into her possession when they stopped at the graceyard, and now made its way to Nicky. “I’ve sewn in sheathes in the sleeves, fitted for razor clams so he doesn’t have to carry the blades. I know he doesn’t like them. Can you tell him to come by? I wanted to show him earlier but I couldn’t find him at breakfast. Lord, I don’t want to know about my cousin’s sex life but really, Andrew. Breakfast is the most important meal of the— are you alright? You look pale.”

 __

Andrew forced his feet to move. He pulled himself out the coracle and into the open air, though he barely remembered elbowing his way through the storm of fabric. The cold wind helped steady him, sharpening his thoughts into focus. Neil wasn’t with Nicky. Neil wasn’t with Reynolds. Neil wasn’t with Kevin or Aaron or Matt or Dan or Seth.

 __

Neil wasn’t with him.

 __

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—_

 __

“Andrew!” Nicky called from where he followed Andrew across the chain back to the _Foxhole._ His words were nearly swallowed by the wind. “What’s wrong?”

 __

 _What was wrong?_ What wasn’t wrong. The wind stenched of wrongness. The sea was drenched in it. The whole world was drowned in it. _Neil wasn’t here._

 __

Andrew’s head was spinning. Neil was supposed to be here. This was worse than the _Baltimore._ Then, Neil had been nothing. Had been a convenience. Had been a promise. Andrew had been furious at him, at his father, at Kevin for keeping Neil’s stupid secrets.

 __

Now? Now Andrew had nothing but to be furious with himself. He felt like he’d slept too long and missed a whole day during which the world had changed. The world had changed. The sea was the sky and the sky was the sea and there was no horizon, no sun, no—

 __

Andrew ripped off the hand that rested on his shoulder.

 __

Nicky.

 __

They were standing on the deck of the _Foxhole_ now, Andrew clasping onto a rope and Nicky clasping onto his bruised hand.

 __

“Don’t.” The words were wrenched from clenched teeth.

 __

“Andrew,” Nicky pleaded, as if trying to coax a shark to not kill. “Andrew. What’s wrong. No one can help you if we don’t know what the problem is.”

 __

“Problem? What problem. There is no problem. The problem, Nicky, _is fucking missing and no one seems to fucking realise it.”_

 __

It took a moment, a moment too long, for Andrew’s words to register. “Neil.”

 __

“Ding ding ding, we have our champion. Neil _fucking_ Josten has vanished off the surface of the sea with not one _fucking_ witness to bear it.”

 __

“Shit. _Shit._ Andrew, it’ll be okay. We’ll find him. We won’t stop until we find him. Why would we? He’s Neil. Neil’s family.”

 __

Andrew opened his mouth, ready to rip Nicky to shreds in a way his hands would not, but the words on his tongue were drowned out by a louder sound: the long, low blast of a horn. The panic of Neil’s absence did not subside, but his anger at Nicky fizzled out into wariness as he recognised that sound.

 __

The military were boarding.

 __

The schooner swayed in its moorings as the military dropped their gangplank. Andrew counted five men lining up to board in their starched black uniforms.

 __

“Damplings! On deck!” the one in the front commanded as he boarded the _Foxhole._ As the other soldiers lined up along the stern of the _Foxhole_ he stayed put, taking the lead. Andrew assumed he was their captain, and found him wanting.

 __

Andrew and Nicky remained where they were, already on the deck, but Andrew could hear the reluctant footsteps of the rest of the _Foxhole Circus’_ crew making their way out of the forecastle and their coracles.

 __

“Listen up, people,” the captain said after clapping to get their attention. “Let’s keep this orderly and you’ll be off in no time.”

 __

Andrew kept watching the soldiers warily. They had that air of smug authority men often carried when they thought themselves more powerful than they were. It would make their fall steeper when they realised that they were outnumbered and no amount of government-issued authority could surpass the sheer volume of resistant damplings.

 __

By his side, Andrew felt Nicky start to hunch his shoulders in an attempt to shorten himself. With the military it was best to be as bland as possible, and Nicky looked like we were trying to imagine himself a thin shell full of seawater and dust. Andrew wanted to throw the soldiers overboard for making Nicky try to collapse into a husk of himself. He settled for standing in front of Nicky protectively, though their height difference didn’t help matters much. Across the deck, Aaron was standing in front of Kevin, Seth in front of Allison and Matt. Matt was clearly at war with himself, wanting to keep Dan back too but knowing that as quartermaster, she needed to be visible.

 __

The military captain was slightly taller than the others, and Andrew watched as he paced the deck, prodded the off-kilter wheel, scraped a fingernail of paint of the flaking mast, and tapped at the wooden hull where it was rotting. He stood steady as an anchor, but his men swayed with the motion of the boat, fidgeting with their holstered weapons. They weren’t subtle in their attempted intimidation, though Andrew had been dealing with the military as long as he could remember.

 __

Wymack wasn’t impressed with their show of force either. Once the Foxes had settled, he addressed the military captain directly. “Is that really necessary?”

 __

“We’re not taking any chances,” the captain answered. “I know of your crew’s reputation.” He shifted a sideways glance to Andrew, and Andrew only stared back blankly until the captain turned back to Wymack. “Right now there’s only four of my men here in good faith and assuming we will have your full cooperation. If we need to take a more aggressive approach, we will do so. We’ve got a string of offenses we could charge you with, starting with a mis-documentation of a recent Resting and escalating to destruction of land.” When Wymack didn’t react to that, the captain sighed. “You know why we’ve boarded, dampling. You may as well give it up.”

 __

“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate,” Wymack said.

 __

“I believe the last time you had a run-in with the military a contract was signed that led to instating Mr. Neil Josten as a real and functioning member of society. This contract very explicitly stated that Mr. Josten was to remain a member of this crew until death. No more running from ship to ship or posing as a landlocker. He was not allowed to change his mind.” “What has Neil got to do with this?” Wymack asked, because he didn’t know. _He didn’t know._ Neil was missing and somehow the military had found out before Andrew had, had known to chase after the _Foxhole_ while Andrew was still sleeping, and Andrew knew that these were connected. It was trouble that followed Neil’s every footstep, not coincidence.

 __

“It seems you have a lot to lose here, dampling, so let’s not play games. Captain to captain. For you are a captain”—he cast his eyes around the scrubbed and peeling deck of the _Foxhole_ —“of a sort. There’s been a report of activity from your convoy. What have you to say about that?”

 __

Wymack folded his arms across his chest. “Nothing. We left North-West 3 as documented, and are on our way to North-West 4, as documented.”

 __

The military captain motioned to his line of soldiers, and one of them produced a roll of fabric. The captain took it off him, unrolled the fabric, and examined the rows of neatly printed numbers.

 __

“So you’re confirming that if my men were to check your convoy, we would find—let’s see—twelve crewmembers?”

 __

Andrew knew Wymack would nod, and the soldiers would search the _Foxhole_ and its coracles. They would find cargo to confiscate, but they wouldn’t find Neil. It would mean the Foxes lost more than they already had, and Andrew wouldn’t risk it. He shifted his weight to his right foot and stomped on Nicky’s toes with his left.

 __

 _“Ow!”_ Nicky whined.

 __

Andrew ignored him; it had caught Wymack’s attention. Unfortunately it had also caught the military captain’s. He turned his gaze onto Andrew, but Andrew held his stare. He’d had plenty of run-ins with the military, and this captain was shorter than most.

 __

“Do you have something to add to this discussion, dampling?”

 __

Andrew’s expression didn’t change, and he remained silent. Even though the captain had addressed him directly, answering back would have the captain ordering one of his men to attempt to lay a hand on him, and Andrew needed to keep his rage firmly locked down. He needed to find Neil, and spending the night on a prison boat because of a few wandering hands would make that considerably more difficult.

 __

“Captain, talk some sense into your team,” the military captain said. “Shall we discuss this morning’s transgression? Let me explain. This morning, before it left port to sail south, the circus boat _Evermore_ submitted a report. This report states that the _Evermore’_ s crew has increased by one. This one new member was previously documented as a crewmember of the _Foxhole_ —which, you may have noticed, is this very convoy. The problem, captain, is that there was no report from you about your crew reducing. Do you see how we must be sure of these numbers? People cannot be allowed to slip through the cracks in the deck.” The captain pointed a finger in Wymack’s face, and out of the corner of his eye Andrew saw Matt grasp onto Dan’s wrist to keep her still. Allison turned to her too and murmured something into her ear. Dan deflated a little, but Andrew could see the anger she was bottling.

 __

“It would be irresponsible of me to allow a captain who cannot even control his own crew, to retain such ownership of a convoy. This is your second strike. The first was housing a known fugitive for months. A third misstep and this,” he twirled his finger to indicate the Foxes, “is over. Remember you are only here because we are allowing it. You have twenty minutes to hand me the correct documentation, or I escort you and your crew back to North-West 3 and we confiscate this ship. Do I make myself clear?”

 __

Andrew didn’t know first-hand how hard Wymack could punch, but with biceps like that he assumed it was a lot. Andrew made no plans to stop Wymack from killing the military captain with his bare hands; he would only stop the other soldiers from interfering.

 __

But Wymack didn’t bring his hand back into a fist. He nodded stiffly, with clenched teeth, and pushed open the door behind him to the captain’s quarters.

 __

Andrew watched in shock. He could hear the chains of the coracles clank together and birds shrieking overhead. Waves slapped against the boats, but on the _Foxhole,_ Andrew choked on silence. He couldn’t believe that Wymack would just write Neil off like that. Wymack had promised him that he could stay. Wymack had _promised_ and Andrew had _trusted_ him.

 __

Andrew stepped forward to chase after Wymack, but the military captain turned and crossed his path.

 __

“Back to your crew, dampling,” he ordered. When Andrew didn’t stop, he motioned to his soldiers and Andrew only stilled when he heard the click of a pistol’s safety. “Are you threatening a military captain?”

 __

Andrew clenched his jaw to choke down the impulse to beat the captain to an inch of his life. It wouldn’t help Neil. “No,” he gritted out, and forced himself to return to Nicky’s side. He saw confusion and fear in Nicky’s expression, but he knew that fear was not directed _at_ Andrew as much as it was _for_ him. It didn’t help.

 __

When Wymack returned, Andrew didn’t need to hear the clink of coins to know that Wymack was saving the _Foxhole Circus_ once more. Andrew now knew that Wymack’s priorities were with his precious chunk of wood and not his crew. Despite all he claimed about the _Foxhole Circus_ being a home of second chances, Wymack would dispose of his crew no matter the cost, but the price of losing his ship was too high to bear. He was just like every other captain who sailed the sea, and Andrew was infuriated with himself for believing any different.

 __

The bribe only took moments, but it would take the circus many months to save up for another visit from the military. Andrew didn’t care. If Neil wasn’t on this ship then he saw no reason to stay. He would find Neil with or without the Foxes’ help.

 __

Deciding that there would be no need to wield their weapons, the soldiers had lost interest in the _Foxhole Circus._ Without orders from their captain they didn’t dare to disembark and head for their own boat, but they turned their gaze to the horizon instead of fixing it on the Foxes.

 __

With a thud of boots and an out-of-tune whistle, both captains emerged from belowdecks. The military captain held a roll of fabric in his fist, and Wymack held nothing but the target of Andrew’s impending wrath. The military captain nodded to his men, who filed messily off onto their own boat, hands on their weapons. The captain stepped onto the gangplank and turned around.

 __

“I hope I won’t have to see you again, dampling,” he said to Wymack.

 __

Wymack only nodded, as if the two were in agreement, and then the captain’s boot left the schooner, and he strode across the gangplank to the military boat and they sailed on. The coracles bobbed in the swell of the military’s boat, silent now. Andrew needed to return to his so he could retrieve his knives, but he wanted answers first.

 __

With no obstacles in his way, no soldiers with their weapons, Andrew didn’t pause in his march to Wymack. He was only stopped from punching Wymack in the face when both Dan and Matt grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him back. Their cries of protest went ignored as Andrew pushed forward again. When he brought his fist back, Dan and Matt were too slow to catch him, but still his punch didn’t land.

 __

“We’re going to get him,” Wymack said, hands loose by his sides and making no effort to protect himself. All that talk about how he wouldn’t hit someone unless they hit first, and Wymack wouldn’t even raise his hand in a block.

 __

Andrew’s fist shook where he’d restrained it, still swung back in aborted momentum.

 __

“Andrew, we’re going to get him,” Wymack repeated. “Giving up on Neil goes against everything we are. I was game to argue with them for as long as it took, but not if it meant wasting time we should be spending on following the _Evermore.”_

 __

Andrew slowly lowered his hand, but the other Foxes were wise enough to keep quiet while he thought.

 __

“South,” he eventually said. “They said the _Evermore_ was heading south.” Wymack nodded, but there was something in his expression that made Andrew’s suspicion rise once more. “What.”

 __

It was Kevin who answered. “The Ravens don’t do so well in the North-West archipelago. They’ll skip it and head further south.”

 __

“It’s several weeks back to the South-West archipelago,” Wymack added. “And we won’t catch up with the _Evermore_ until it stops for the night somewhere. We don’t have the supplies right now to follow them.” Andrew opened his mouth to argue, but Wymack insisted, “Andrew if we attempt to follow them now, we’ll be half-starved and useless when we find Neil. I don’t think Riko is going to let him go without a fight, do you?”

 __

Andrew didn’t answer. He was shaking a little, but he couldn’t stop it, and that only served to make him angrier.

 __

Wymack flicked his gaze to Kevin. “Set the course to North-West 4. We’re going to stock up on supplies, turn around, and head south again.”

 __

He then turned to Andrew, and there was something in his eyes that Andrew had only seen once before. A promise. “We’re going to get him back, Andrew. We’re going to bring him home.”

 __


	11. ten

**byakko** \ ˈbī-ə-ˈk-ü \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing west

 **T** wo weeks passed in a blur of polishing gracecages and washing ink-stains off fingers. Renee had asked Allison how the _Brethren Banquet_ had gone, hoping to hear of cleared bets and entertaining stories, but instead Allison had told her how Neil had vanished and how the military had paid them a visit. Renee had only come across the military once before, and that was when a handful of soldiers escorted her from North-East 9 to her graceyard. She couldn’t remember their faces anymore, but Renee had spent her first year as a gracekeeper memorising their names. She had since let go of revenge plots, but the names of those soldiers couldn’t be washed away so easily.

Allison had written to her, apologising for not being able to send Renee anything from North-West 4 since the Foxes had been too focused on trading goods for any exploration. Matt had only been able to see his mother for half an hour. Renee told Allison she didn’t have to apologise, but she knew that Allison showed her affection through gifts as much as she did action. Still, she hoped that Allison understood that while Renee appreciated the gifts, treasured them, it wasn’t the presents that Renee liked most.

Renee knew that the _Foxhole Circus_ was on its way south now, and were likely passing North-West 7 sometime that day. She didn’t have long left to decide. She figured that the worst-case scenario was that Allison would say no, probably stop writing to her, and maybe report her to the military.

She shook her head. Even if Allison didn’t want anything to do with her, she wouldn’t report her. Renee remembered the ferocity of Allison’s words when she described the Foxes’ latest run-in with the military.

Renee dipped the stem of her quill into her ink, and began to write.

Would you like my help?

It was a long time before Allison’s reply seeped into the fabric underneath Renee’s message.

I’ll tell Wymack we’re making another stop. Andrew won’t be pleased. You might want to pack something sweet.

It hadn’t taken Renee very long to pack her things for the journey. She didn’t know how long she would spend on the _Foxhole,_ but she didn’t own many things anyway. She had filled a box with the small amount of food she had left—unfortunately none of these could be considered ‘sweet’—and tucked her nightshirt into the extra space. She looked over at her white dress folded on the end of her bed, still stiff with salt. It felt strange to leave it behind, but she knew now that the Foxes wouldn’t mind that she didn’t dress like a normal gracekeeper. Besides, wearing long skirts on a ship wasn’t particularly wise when trousers were considerably more practical. As long as she wore her gloves, everything would be fine.

She spent a long time looking at the chart on the wall. After writing to Allison for the last two months, knowing what life on the _Foxhole_ was like, Renee knew she shouldn’t take it with her. It would get damaged, and the thought of letting it dust over somehow seemed gentler than letting the ink wash away. She tugged off one of her gloves and traced the lines separating countries. She knew of other charts of the world before, though this was the only one she had seen personally. Each chart was the world seen through a different lens, every cartographer proof that there was more than one perspective.

Even though she told herself that there was no room for the chart, that it would be ruined or she would lose it forever, she still ached at the thought of leaving it behind. She took out the pins, folded the chart into eighths, and placed it in her box. Before she could take it out again, she pulled her glove back on and carried the box downstairs.

Docked at her porch, Renee’s rowing boat was crammed with the cages of the few still-living graces. She had considered letting them go, to fall into the sea or fly to another graceyard, but then she remembered what she had agreed to do for Allison. To save Neil. From what Allison had told her, Neil Josten walked into trouble as often as he was dragged into it. There was the chance that Neil had left the Foxes of his own accord, but Renee doubted that. She wouldn’t let him sink, so she wouldn’t let the graces. She knew that Jean would take good care of them. He had gentle hands, and a gentle soul. He would save them. She could only hope that she could save Neil too.

Rowing her boat to Jean’s graceyard was cathartic. She let the steady push and pull of her oars settle her thoughts, leaving them stranded in the water as she climbed out of her boat and stepped onto the porch of Jean’s lighthouse. She knocked on Jean’s door, and he didn’t take long to answer.

“Renee,” he said in greeting, an expression of surprise tugging his eyebrows skyward. He then looked over his shoulder and saw the graces in her rowing boat. His surprise didn’t linger. “You’re leaving.”

Renee couldn’t bring herself to nod. “Will you take care of them? And if anyone comes by looking for me, will you do their Restings?”

Jean nodded, more resolute than she. He helped her take the gracecages out of her boat and stacked them onto his porch front.

There were as many ways to die at sea as there were feathers on a grace, from storms and whales and infighting to attacks by strangers on unlicensed boats. Before long, Renee’s Resting parties would lose another of their loved ones. They would return to her graceyard, and find an empty lighthouse surrounded by empty cages. So they would come here instead, come to Jean to start the timer on their mourning.

When they finished stacking the cages, Renee reached for the small box left in the rowing boat and scooped out a handful of seeds. She scattered them inside the cages, but didn’t watch them eat. She turned back to Jean, who was watching her expectantly.

“Are you leaving tonight?” he asked. He was watching the sky as it turned orange and pink, or the still water reflecting the sunset, or maybe the horizon in between.

“Tomorrow.”

“How?”

Renee considered what words to use. She didn’t want to name the _Foxhole Circus,_ in case the military or her island council came by to ask questions about their missing gracekeeper. She didn’t want to put Jean in any danger.

“A ship is coming by. They agreed to take me with them.”

Jean nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions. Perhaps he didn’t want to know for the same reason she didn’t want him to know. Perhaps he simply didn’t care.

“Will you write?” he asked.

Renee frowned a little, but then smoothed out her face. She didn’t want him to think she didn’t want to. “I won’t be gone long. But yes, I will. If you like.”

Jean turned his head to her. “You’re coming back?”

“Of course I am. This is my life, my home.” Jean didn’t reply, so Renee added: “I will come back, Jean, and soon. And I’ll visit you more often. We can listen to records together, drink together sometimes, and cool our feet in the sea.” His expression changed then, to something strange. He probably hadn’t realised that Renee had noticed him doing that. Renee took a breath. “I just need to leave for a little while, and for you to look after things until I return. Okay?”

Jean was still quiet for a while. “I hope you don’t come back,” he eventually said, and then continued before Renee could argue. “I hope you write, and I hope we can stay friends. But I hope you don’t come back. You’re meant for more than this. This—” he gestured to the surrounding sea “—is not your salvation as it is mine.”

Renee considered him. She considered his gentle hands with pianist fingers that could only play records. She considered the tattoo of a tiger on his cheekbone, the white ink sharp against his dark skin. _Byakko,_ he had told her. _He controls the wind._

Renee thought it ironic that his past had chosen this symbol for him, and yet he found his solace in a world without wind. “I think you’re meant for more than this too,” she said. “Being safe, being away from danger and loss… this is the bare minimum.” He looked down at his feet, ducking his head as if in shame. “Jean, you deserve to be happy.”

“But you plan on coming back?” he said in challenge. He gestured to her clothes. “I hope I never see you in one of those dresses again. They don’t suit you.”

Renee laughed at that. “The sleeves were always uncomfortable.”

Jean nodded, a small smile on his face. He reached out and plucked at his old shirt, the one that still hung loose around Renee’s frame. “This suits you.”

Renee smiled too. “Thank you.”

Jean sat down and pulled off his shoes and socks, dipping his bare feet into the water. Renee sat down beside him, but kept her feet dry. She had lied to him when she said she would cool her feet in the sea with him, offered empty platitudes in hopes that he wouldn’t question her leaving the graceyards. She regretted that now, and not because Jean had called her bluff. She shouldn’t have lied to him. Jean had been nothing but good to her.

Jean startled her by releasing a breath of a laugh. “You won’t touch the water and yet you’re surrounded by it. They’re baiting you, punishing you for something that should not be a crime.”

Renee ignored that, because though Jean had good intentions, he didn’t know the truth. He only saw the person she tried so very hard to be, and couldn’t fathom her past. She was a gracekeeper because she deserved to be stranded in the doldrums, isolated from the rest of humanity.

Renee remembered the last morning she lived as a landlocker: crossing the blackshore and dipping her toes into the seawater. She remembered the coldness of it, sharp, until a second or two passed and it felt warm and soothing. She remembered walking further until the water lapped at her knees and the material of her stolen trousers pulled and pushed at her legs with each wave. She remembered the wind snatching her hair and tangling it into tendrils, whipping them across her face and yet her skin didn’t sting. She remembered the sea pulsing in her veins, urging her on, encouraging her to reclaim what was taken from her. Renee looked down at the sea lapping up the side of Jean’s porch. So what if she dipped her toes in? The call was already impossible to ignore. She had simply gotten used to saying no. The sea had caused her problems, so perhaps returning to it permanently could solve them all.

But then she remembered Allison, and the sight of the _Foxhole_ anchoring at her lighthouse. She remembered the bright colours of its crew, and she felt hope rattle around in her heart like a caged bird. She held onto it, held it deep in her chest, and then let it go. It was not wise to hope—her fate was sealed—but she hoped someone else could find it.

She imagined it having form and catching each breeze across the sea, floating up, up, until it got caught on bright orange sails. It would stay there a moment, held in place by the wind, and then ease down onto the deck. It might lie there for a few hours, untouched. But eventually it would be scooped up into warm hands and held close to someone’s chest. She wished it would find whoever needed hope most.

**binnacle** \ ˈbi-ni-kəl \ a box on the deck of a ship holding the ship’s compass

 **A** llison watched over the bow of the _Foxhole_ as it crawled through the doldrums. There wasn’t much point; even though she could see Renee’s lighthouse ahead, it would be another hour before they arrived. Allison wanted a gust of wind to surge them forward, but she wasn’t capable of harnessing the wind. Not until the Foxes’ next performance, at least.

They had arrived in the doldrums earlier that day, and spent the following hours inching forward through the crystal sea, sails barely fluttering. Kevin was still hunched over the binnacle and ordering Wymack and Dan to steer them in the right direction, despite the fact they could see Renee’s lighthouse on the horizon. Dan caught Allison’s eye and made a face, and when Allison beckoned her over with the tilt of her head, Dan quickly left Wymack and Kevin to it.

The bright orange of Dan’s silk headscarf was easy to spot against a background of the vast blue sea. Allison had taken her braids out last month so her hair could rest, and was currently sporting one of her own scarves, though the sage green silk wasn’t nearly as garish. Neil would have argued with that, as he would argue with anything since he’d dropped the _I’m quiet and I don’t like to make a scene_ act. But then, Neil wasn’t here to argue with anything. Allison swallowed down that thought with force. She knew Neil was definitely causing trouble for the Ravens. He wouldn’t be quiet. He would fight them back.

Dan sat down opposite her with her legs crossed and her knees bracketing the wide-brimmed bowl of marshmallow root shavings. They had been kept in Allison’s coracle since the messenger boat dropped off Renee’s message, but they had kept well. Allison passed Dan the grater and the half-shaved root and wiped off the loose shavings into the bowl between them.

“How’d you manage to get this?” Dan asked.

“Renee sent it to me,” Allison said, leaning back on her hands and closing her eyes against the sun.

“Ahh,” Dan said, and Allison could hear her fighting off a smile. She reached over and smacked her knee. “Hey! I didn’t say anything! I’m supportive. I think it’s cute that after so many years of insisting that no-one could ever hold your attention for more than a month, all it took was one gracekeeper and you start pining and—”

“I am _not_ pining,” Allison interrupted.

“Who’s not pining?” Matt asked, sitting down beside Dan and took over the grating.

“Allison, apparently,” Dan said before Allison could answer.

Matt snorted out a laugh, and laughed harder at Allison’s glare. “You’re joking, right? No-one’s seen you this far gone since… well. Ever.”

“I’m not ‘far gone’.”

“No,” Dan agreed, suspiciously reasonable. “You just write to her all hours of the night and think about her every second and ask things like, _‘do you think Renee will like this?’_ and _‘did you know that Renee knows eighteen ways to kill a man’_ and on the day you’re finally going to see her again you spent a whole hour fixing your edges?”

Allison squawked. “Shut up!”

“We get it,” Dan said with a laugh. “She’s a babe. She’s the love of your life. You’re going to marry her and adopt an island of miscreants together.”

Allison grimaced at that. “No we’re not. I’ll leave the Wymack impersonations to you.”

“Okay,” Matt said, halting Dan’s retort. “Are we making cleanses or not?”

Dan shook off her annoyance and took the grater off him. “Fine, but you’re doing it wrong.”

“How is there a wrong way to do this?” Matt asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Dan said. “But you managed it anyway.”

Matt stuck his tongue out at her, which made Allison smile and Dan laugh and nudge his arm. It was a habit he’d picked up from Dan. Allison wondered if she had picked up any habits from Renee, or Renee from her, or whether it was exclusive to being in each other’s physical presence. She started to muse whether she’d picked up any phrases or expressions from Renee, before realising she was subconsciously proving Dan’s point. She cleared her head of Renee, knowing she would surface again in her thoughts soon enough anyway, and pulled the bowl of marshmallow root shavings toward her. A few pieces fell onto the deck from the grater in Dan’s hand, but Allison paid them no mind.

She began to scoop the shavings into the empty glass jar and, once the bowl was empty, filled the jar with filtered water. They couldn’t be too wasteful, so the cleansing water would definitely smell a little too strong to be pleasant, but it would help detangle everyone’s hair when it had finished soaking. Allison could admit to herself that the one thing she did miss about living on land, was access to fresh, running water. She only needed to wash her hair once a month, but she pitied the white damplings whose hair was constantly greasy and matted. There was a reason so many of them shaved their heads.

Allison looked over the bow of the _Foxhole_ to the sea again. Renee’s lighthouse was growing closer and closer, and now she could make out the spiral of gracecages surrounding it. Renee could be upstairs, but Allison liked to think she was sitting in her Resting room waiting for the Foxes, waiting for her.

She got to her feet, and when Dan looked at her inquisitive Allison shook the jar of marshmallow root at her. Dan nodded.

On her way back to her coracle, jar in hand, Allison felt something land on her shoulder. She startled and jumped backward. When she saw the butt of a cigarette she looked skyward. She couldn’t see anyone up in the crow’s nest, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that it was Andrew. He had been up there all day. Nicky had been the one to clamber up the main mast to bring him food and water when he wouldn’t come down for lunch. Allison thought his sulking was pathetic. They were going to get Neil back, and Andrew isolating himself wasn’t going to solve anything.

She huffed and picked up the cigarette butt, hurling it over the side of the _Foxhole_ so one of the others wouldn’t stand on it and burn their bare feet. Once the butt had left her hand, she regretted tossing it. Renee would have probably chided her for littering. But she’d already done it, and she wouldn’t waste anyone’s time regretting her actions. She would just make sure to not do it again.

Allison tucked the jar into her shirt and climbed down to the coracles. Once she dropped down into her own coracle, she set the jar on one of the shelves with the rest of her and Dan’s supplies. She trailed her fingertips over the other jars, pondering over potential combinations for both practicality and fragrance. Eventually she reached the end of the shelves and ducked down to pull out her chest of clothes from underneath her bunk. She rifled through the array of coloured fabric until she found the bundle of silk headscarves. She was going to change into a salmon pink shirt, so she eventually settled on a pale gold scarf with a botanical print in white. It was large enough that once tied, the ends could be pulled over one shoulder as their own ornamentation. Sidestepping to the right, Allison rummaged around her jewellery to find a pair of gold doorknocker earrings. She held them against the silk, as if she didn’t already know that they paired perfectly, before setting them aside. She dragged out her chest of clothes from under her bunk and pulled out the shirt.

Once changed, she felt a brief moment of panic. What if Renee didn’t recognise her? Allison was aware that her white braids were one of her most memorable attributes, and she and Renee had only met once.

Allison exhaled. _No,_ she thought to herself as she stared at her reflection. _You are far too beautiful to fade into a haze of memory. And Renee won’t care if you look like a drowned bilge rat. She’s talked to you for two months without seeing your gorgeous face. She likes you. It’s fine. You’re fine._

Despite Dan’s earlier teasing, Allison did fix up her edges with more flaxseed gel. Deciding to leave further ornamentation for another night, she didn’t reach for the tin of tiny pearls and coloured beads. She applied a layer of balm on her lips and rubbed them together. _She was confident. She was confident. She was confident._

She was Allison Reynolds, and she did _not_ need validation.

The butterflies in her stomach disagreed wholeheartedly.

The air was just as humid when she climbed out of her coracle as it was when she had climbed in. The sea was just as blue, and the sky just as clear. The world hadn’t changed, indifferent to Allison’s newfound bout of nerves. She took a deep breath, left her nervousness in the sea, and climbed up to the _Foxhole_ once more. As she strode across the deck, to where the others had started to prepare the schooner for docking, she imagined that she was wearing the high-heeled shoes she wore as a landlocker. They were impractical on a ship, more so than all the other trivialities she insisted on keeping in her life, but she remembered the confidence boost they gave her. If she could master walking on sand in high-heeled shoes, she could master anything.

She could master this.

She was Allison Reynolds, she was Allison Reynolds, she was Allison Reynolds.

The _Foxhole_ bumped against the dock of Renee’s graceyard.

“Fuck,” Allison breathed out.

As some kind of karmic repercussion, Seth had overheard her. He grinned at her, sharklike. “Nervous about something?”

Allison shoved at his shoulder. “Fuck off.”

Seth barked out a laugh. “Oh, the great Allison Reynolds, finally succumbed by anxiety because of a pretty girl.”

_Handsome,_ Allison thought. _Renee is handsome, and strong, and kind, and— and she is climbing aboard._

Matt offered Renee a hand as she climbed the rope ladder up the side of the _Foxhole._ She was surprisingly quick, considering that most landlockers lacked the stability to stand on anything but rock and earth, but then Allison supposed that if Renee relied on her upper body strength to pull herself up then she wouldn’t need to rely on her feet so much.

Allison hadn’t moved, but Renee’s eyes caught her gaze anyway. She wasn’t sure why or how it was possible, how Renee seemed to follow her own constellations. The sea, the sky, the dozens of scattered archipelagos: the whole world shrank to the joyful and relieved expression on Renee’s face. Allison forgot how to breathe. Her head throbbed to the beat of her heart.

She didn’t take breath until Renee stepped forward, one foot after another, until she stood in front of Allison.

“Hello, Allison,” she said, as if they had only been parted a day.

“Hi,” Allison said, and exhaled when Renee smiled.

Infuriatingly, the others’ arrival killed the mood. Allison scowled when Nicky stepped up to Renee’s side with his hand raised in greeting.

“I knew Allison wasn’t entirely frosty,” he said, which made matters considerably worse. “Whatever she’s told you about us is definitely wrong. I’m Nicky. Glamour of the _Foxhole Circus.”_

Renee smiled, more polite than the one she saved for Allison, and though it probably wasn’t any less genuine, it wasn’t as openly delighted. Allison felt a wave of smugness fill her chest, and her irritation at Nicky passed.

“I remember,” Renee said.

“Ah, but Wymack didn’t tell you the important stuff,” Nicky said. He held his hand to his chest. “I, for example, am the reason Allison looks as good as she does, not that she’ll ever give me credit for it.” Allison huffed out a breath of disbelief at that, but Nicky had moved on and was now pointing at Aaron and Kevin, standing a little away from the others. “That’s Aaron. He’s a bit rude sometimes, but at least he’s honest. The tall one is Kevin. He’s as stubborn as he is pretty, but if you ever want to know something about the Old World he’s the one to ask.”

While Nicky reintroduced the rest of the crew, Allison looked around for the Monster, but he wasn’t on deck. She assumed he was still in the crow’s nest, and was glad Renee’s opinion of them all wasn’t tarnished by him.

“Renee Walker,” Renee said, as if anyone could ever forget her name. “It’s nice to see all of you again.”

STOP YAPPING, Wymack called from the helm, and Allison and Renee turned to him like mirrored sides of the moon. LET’S GET US OUT TO SEA. WE’VE GOT A FOX TO RESCUE.


	12. eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for graphic violence and mild gore/body horror (if you want more details just drop me a message on [tumblr](https://wishbonetea.tumblr.com/ask))

**anchorage** \ ˈaŋ-k(ə-)rij \ a means of securing; a source of reassurance

 **L** ife on the _Foxhole_ was… loud, to say the least. Compared to the stillness of the graceyard, the circus boat was a riot of sound and movement. The Foxes were argumentative and stubborn and so _alive_ that it made Renee want to sit down and watch it all rather than participate. But she did participate. She didn’t want to miss a second of her time with Allison and the Foxes, even if it meant spending a month catching up on lost sleep once she returned to her graceyard.

While they slowly drifted through the doldrums, the Foxes fished for food and carried out repairs. The first night when the sun dipped into the sea, throwing blood and honey across the sky, Allison tugged Renee into the kitchen to help Abby with dinner. It wasn’t easy to gut fish while wearing gloves, and Renee had already cleaned them twice since boarding the schooner, but she didn’t have much of a choice. Allison had never asked her about them, even though she didn’t seem to mind being nosy when it came to everyone else, but Renee had caught Abby eyeing the fishgut-speckled leather. Once Abby had noticed that she had been caught, she hadn’t looked again, and for that Renee was very grateful.

That night Renee and the Foxes gathered in the forecastle to eat poached fish and fried seaweed, and Renee loved it so much that she couldn’t imagine eating rye bread and sunflower seeds ever again.

“Aren’t you supposed to only eat landlocker food?” Nicky asked her.

“Do you have any?” Renee returned, through a mouthful of sardine. When Nicky only shrugged, Renee said, “You’re not supposed to share quarters with a landlocker, but I don’t see much of an option there either. Who’s to know what we do or say or eat out here? Landlockers don’t have that sort of power out on the sea.”Nicky looked to Renee as he chewed another mouthful of seaweed, searching her face for a reaction or condemnation. Renee only smiled.

“Pretty open-minded for a landlocker,” he said eventually.

Renee hummed. “I haven’t lived on land for eight years, but I remember the fear of the unknown. Islanders are terrified of losing their homes to the sea, but fear is hardly an excuse for today’s rampant violence and discrimination. The way landlockers treat damplings is wrong. And anyway, I like dampling food.”

“Cute,” Nicky said, and then looked over Renee’s shoulder. “Andrew, she’s cute. Can we keep her?”

Renee hadn’t noticed Andrew, but by the time her shoulders tensed in instinctive warning Andrew had already walked past her. He set down his plate on the table, and sat down next to Kevin. Renee knew that relaxing her guard was a healthy development; she hadn’t had to be hyper-aware of her surroundings since becoming a gracekeeper. Despite that, dismay at being startled was a prickling heat in her throat. She would have to work through that inappropriate reaction later. For now, she took stock of the _Foxhole Circus’_ knife thrower.

Andrew was wearing the same black wrappings around his forearms, and Renee couldn’t help but wonder if Andrew used them to hide something sinister in the same way that Renee used her gloves.

Andrew pulled his fish into small pieces with his hands before eating each piece one at a time. He looked over after a while, but he didn’t look surprised to find that Renee was watching him. In fact, Renee wasn’t sure that she’d ever seen any particular expression upon his face other than total boredom.

“How indecisive,” Andrew said.

Renee felt like she was missing half of the conversation. “I’m sorry?”

“So I’ve heard.”

There was a strong chance she’d just been insulted, but Renee offered him a smile. Andrew ignored it, which didn’t surprise her, and tore up his seaweed into even finer strips. This seemed to be some form of cue for Nicky to continue chattering away about life in the _Foxhole Circus._ Slowly but surely Nicky started turning the focus of the conversation toward Renee’s life. Renee saw it happening a mile away and smiled, and from beside her, Allison noticed too. She didn’t smile, though. Instead she kicked him from under the table and said, “Watch it, Hemmick.”

Nicky raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just curious. Sheesh.”

What Renee found curious, though, was that after he lowered his hands and Allison continued her conversation with Dan, Nicky sent an apologetic look toward Andrew. Andrew caught her eye, though again he didn’t react.

Renee smiled at him again, but there was nothing sweet in her stare. Renee smiled at him again, but there was nothing sweet in her stare. “You could just ask,” she said, but Andrew didn’t acknowledge it. She idly wondered if he was testing her, daring her to look away first. It was a simple power game—childish, Allison would say, because Allison would thankfully never understand—and one Renee saw no reason to win. She held Andrew’s hard stare for a minute, long enough to accept his challenge, before turning her gaze back to the others.

She only half listened to their conversation, but her thoughts were entirely on the Foxes further down the table. Renee knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be, but the Andrew sitting beside Kevin looked incapable of the atrocities Allison had linked him to. Not because he looked harmless—because he certainly did not—but because he didn’t look motivated enough to do anything requiring that much energy.

When Renee flicked her gaze back to the ‘Monsters’, as Allison referred to Andrew’s family, Andrew’s attention had moved on and he didn’t glance her way again for the rest of the evening.

After clearing their plates and cups from the forecastle—Matt and Seth on duty for washing up—Allison and Dan led Renee back to their coracle. Renee managed to clamber down the chain, copying Dan and Allison’s movements of hooking her knees across the chain and shimmying down (with considerably less grace than circus performers).

The coracle was smaller than she anticipated, though it still had enough room to sleep on the floor between the two bunks.

“Okay,” Dan said, clapping her hands together to get Renee and Allison’s attention. “I’m going to be sleeping with Matt—”

“—Have been for a while, babe,” Allison interrupted with a sly smile.

Dan pointed a warning finger at her. “So Renee, you can take my bunk.”

“Oh, no,” Renee started, “I couldn’t. I’ll just sleep on the floor!”

Allison grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

Renee remembered sleeping under the stilt-homes on reclaimed land of North-East 9. She smiled. “I’ll be fine. Really. I don’t want to intrude. Dan, please. Stay.”

Allison and Dan both protested a little more, but eventually acquiesced with a promise to give Renee as many blankets as they could spare. Renee had agreed, thinking this meant the spares on Allison and Dan’s bunks, but she found herself a little overwhelmed when the rest of the Foxes came trooping in with extra blankets and pillows in their arms. Renee was surprised when Andrew came down, though he didn’t bring anything with him. He seemed to be tagging along with his family for the company, or perhaps just to keep an eye on his charges. She caught him watching her a couple times, mostly when she had no idea how to react to the Foxes’ generosity—she wasn’t used to people being this kind without an ulterior motive. It was the first time she could discern any kind of expression from Andrew. He seemed almost angry. Renee looked down at her new bed and the huge pile of cushions and blankets to make a makeshift mattress. She wanted to thank the others, but she had no idea where to begin. She made an attempt anyway.

Afterward, when the rest of the Foxes had left, Renee couldn’t fall asleep. She lay on her back staring at the canvas above her for what seemed like hours. From the light snores to her left, Dan was definitely asleep, but Allison’s breathing didn’t seem slow or deep enough for her to be. Renee didn’t know if Allison could tell that Renee was awake too. It felt a breath away from being comfortable, the air too charged. Renee imaged tiny electric eels, darting to and fro around the coracle, swimming closer and closer together but never quite touching. She imagined a white-hot spark every close call, and she imagined reaching out and clasping it. She could set fire to the world with it.

Renee heard the rustle of fabric to her right and froze. The coracle wasn’t well lit, it was almost pitch black, but there was a gap in the canvas top and a sliver of moonlight seeped through. Renee saw Allison’s hand reaching out from under her blanket, reaching out toward her. Tentatively, as if their hands too could generate enough of a spark to set the world alight, Renee reached back. Maybe that’s all this could ever be; one hand reaching out, and another reaching back. Maybe that’s all this needed to be.

Renee had slipped into her new bed wearing borrowed clothes, but she had kept her gloves on. It had been dark, but she hadn’t wanted to risk falling asleep and not waking first. She had to know that no one would see her bare skin. It was too risky. She wasn’t staying on the _Foxhole_ long enough to build trust with its crew, she couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t turn her in.

But then Renee looked at Allison’s open and trusting hand, how her dark skin seemed almost blue in the moonlight, another shade of the sea, another shade of the world that called to her. Allison had seen her magic, and instead of flinching away, she had pulled her closer. She had written back again and again, sharing more of herself with Renee and asking for more in return.

For a moment Renee was tired of hiding.

She slipped off her glove and inhaled sharply when her bare fingertips touched Allison’s bare fingertips. A spark imploded in Renee’s chest. She exhaled, and so did Allison, and Renee pushed her hand further up until her fingertips rested against the inside of Allison’s wrist. She felt her pulse, fluttering faster than a resting pulse should feel like. Faster than how fast a heart could pump blood out of an open wo—

Renee pushed that thought away. She was better than that. She would recover. She would grow.

Allison twisted her hand, and for a moment Renee thought that Allison had heard her thoughts and was as disgusted with her as Renee was with herself, but Allison’s fingers then linked with Renee’s, anchoring.

Neither of them let go until they both were fast asleep. Renee knew, because she remembered when Allison’s hand fell limp in her own. Renee had held on, and she wouldn’t let go until Allison pulled away.

**quartermaster** \ ˈkwȯr-tər-ˌmas-tər \ the highest ranking dampling on a ship under the captain, usually elected by the crew

 **D** uring the heat of the doldrums, Renee got to know and understand the Foxes more than she ever had anyone else in the eight years she served as a gracekeeper. Dan was the _Foxhole’_ s quartermaster and, aside from Kevin, she was the first Fox Wymack signed onto his crew. Wymack had seen her as a dancer on another circus boat that was soon to go under, and offered her a job at one of their performances. Dan had left her old circus boat—the _Snowy Starlets _—that night. She hadn’t stayed in touch with the captain, though she still wrote to the other performers she used to work with.__

 _ ___

After Dan, Seth had been the next to join, though he had dipped in and out of life on a circus boat for a few years before finally settling. Seth wasn’t particularly forthcoming about either his past or his hopes for the future, but he told Renee about the islands he had visited when he wasn’t with the Foxes, and Renee guessed that it was those islands that Seth wanted to return to one day. She knew that many damplings dreamed of becoming landlockers and owning a piece of the earth. Even though she couldn’t see the appeal herself, she wouldn’t judge Seth because his dreams were different than hers.

____

Allison had joined the _Foxhole Circus_ just over four years ago, though it was less a case of ‘joining’ than it was demanding to be given a spot on their stage. She had snuck on board after one of the _Foxhole Circus’_ performances at her home island, and hadn’t looked back since.

____

When Matt had been a landlocker, he attended every circus show that the damplings brought to his island. After calling on Dan after several performances, he finally plucked up the courage to ask her if he could join her crew. Dan had agreed, and convinced Wymack that the _Foxhole Circus_ needed a strongman. Matt told Renee that he didn’t think it was his skills as a performer that sold the idea to Wymack, but rather his potential on the deck as a sailor.

____

The other half of the crew were less inclined to share their stories. Renee wouldn’t push, for they had as much of a right to secrecy as she did, but still she felt curious. She knew of Kevin’s past from Allison, and the bits and pieces of it she already knew from the many tales of the _Circus Evermore,_ but the others weren’t as well known in public and what Allison had told her tended to cover stories since joining the _Foxhole Circus._ She didn’t know whether Allison knew their pasts herself and was just keeping it from Renee out of respect for their privacy, or if she didn’t know much herself. Renee hoped that it was the former, but she knew it was more likely the latter. Allison was trustworthy and could keep a secret, but she also toed a lot of boundaries when it came to gossip.

____

Nineteen days on the _Foxhole_ had apparently covered Renee’s parole. When she made her way from Allison and Dan’s coracle to the forecastle, Nicky had taken it upon himself to fill her in.

____

“His left hand is pretty much out,” Nicky told her, regarding Kevin’s injury. Renee didn’t interrupt to tell him that she already knew. “So I doubt he’ll perform again unless he can figure something out where he can perform one handed.”

____

“That sounds dangerous,” Renee said.

____

Nicky grinned. “Yeah. God, can you imagine the look on Riko’s face if he saw that. We’d have to invite him just to say ‘fuck you’.”

____

Renee couldn’t remember what Riko Moriyama looked like, other than a vague blur of dark hair and pale skin. “Do you think Riko would show?”

____

“Definitely,” Nicky said. “Riko’s as obsessive as he is evil. It makes me worry about leaving everyone in September. Not that I’m much help when I am here. I don’t know. Strength in numbers, I guess. Andrew tends to take care of us, and he won’t leave the _Foxhole Circus_ anytime soon.”

____

The date sounded familiar, but Renee couldn’t place why. “What’s happening in September?”

____

“Oh? Allison didn’t tell you? Catty bitch. She knows how important it is to me— okay okay, I won’t talk badly about Allison. God, it’s always the nice ones that get scary.” Nicky sighed, and Renee hadn’t even realised that her expression had changed. She spent a moment pushing down and breathing out the heat of anger that had pooled in her gut. She uncurled clenched fists.

____

“Anyway,” Nicky said, relaxed and cheerful once more. “September is the month of my wedding. I will be marrying the love of my life and moving to North-East 5.”

____

They approached the kitchen and thanked Abby when she handed over their bowls of breakfast. Nicky found them a space on the table running down the centre of the forecastle and Renee sat down opposite him.

____

“So how did you meet?” she asked.

____

Nicky’s grin was proud. “When I left my island, I boarded a Revivalist cruise ship. I could pay my way across to the North-East archipelago, but my money ran out eventually and they dropped me off at North-East 5. Erik found me on the blackshore and gave me a place to stay. I lived there for a year, and eventually my mother replied to one of my letters, telling me that my aunt Tilda had died. That’s Aaron and Andrew’s mother. I left the North-East archipelago to look after them. I wasn’t supposed to stay long, just until they turned eighteen, but then Wymack offered the three of us a place to stay and the chance to make some money for ourselves, and Erik knew how much I loved to perform.”

____

Renee continued to ask little questions that would stem huge stories, and Nicky seemed more and more relaxed the longer he talked. There were a few seconds of quiet while they both chewed, but Nicky seemed to never run out of things to say.

____

While Nicky seemed to latch onto any and every opportunity to talk about Erik, he wouldn’t share much about Aaron or Andrew’s pasts. He was happy to tell her about Aaron’s girlfriend Katelyn, though, a doctor who lived on North-East 1. They had apparently met after a storm beached the _Foxhole_ two years ago and spent the entire week arguing over medical techniques. They had still wound up writing to each other once the _Foxhole_ left, and Nicky already considered Katelyn as part of the family. Nicky assured Renee that she would get to meet Katelyn at his wedding, and that despite her taste in men, Renee was sure to like her.

____

Andrew didn’t have as ambitious dreams for his future, and Nicky only laughed and said the only certainty in Andrew’s future was Neil. Nicky had saddened immediately at the reminder that Neil was currently on the Evermore, so Renee hoped to distract him by asking about what the twins were like when they were younger. Nicky told her that Aaron and Andrew hadn’t grown up together, so he only knew what Aaron had been like, but he didn’t go into detail. Renee chided herself for being nosy and intrusive, but Nicky didn’t appear to mind. He started to chatter about how he missed landlocker food and how he couldn’t wait to return to North-East 5 to be with Erik.

____

As Renee listened, she wondered if she should be excited to return to her graceyard. She mused over it as she and Nicky returned their empty bowls to the kitchen and made their way back to the deck. Most of the Foxes had returned to their coracles, so Renee was surprised to hear soft footsteps behind her. She turned, which alerted Nicky to their company, and found Andrew leaning against the side of the mainmast. He was rolling up a cigarette like he had been there for a while, and Renee pinched down a smile at his pretense.

____

“Andrew,” she said in greeting, though she didn’t expect him to acknowledge her. Nicky was his cousin, and Andrew probably wanted to keep an eye on him as he did the rest of his charges. To her surprise, Nicky didn’t step in Andrew’s direction and leave with him, but instead clapped Renee’s shoulder in encouragement or support. He was gone a heartbeat later, making his way across the deck to the chain leading to the coracles.

____

Renee watched him go, and then turned back to Andrew. He still hadn’t looked up from his cigarette, but once lighted he inhaled a breath and lowered it from his mouth. When he finally looked at her, his gaze was calculative.

____

“Curiosity killed the catfish,” he said. “Tell me you actually have a reason to be here.”

____

“Is wanting to bring Neil home not a good enough reason?” Renee asked.

____

Andrew’s fingers tightened around his cigarette, but his expression didn’t change. “It’s only a good reason if you could actually help.”

____

Renee considered him, debating his motives for asking. He hadn’t earned her trust or her story, but maybe that self-serving secrecy was only another layer of Natalie that she needed to shed. She knew too much of the world to rely on optimism, but she trusted herself to deal with the consequences. Allison had told her the little she knew of Andrew and Neil’s relationship; Andrew would do anything to get Neil back. If Andrew believed Renee could help, he wouldn’t stand in the way of that for the sake of the law.

____

On the other hand Andrew had people to protect and Renee was an unknown factor. He needed to know her story as a means of threat assessment. This was something she understood, and, if what Allison had told her about him, _he_ was something she understood.

____

Renee motioned to his cigarette. “May I?”

____

If he was surprised by her request, he showed no sign of it. He pulled out a small tin from his back pocket and offered it to her. It was simple and plain in design, and when she opened it she found only loose tobacco and thin sheets of kelp. She had to sit down to use her thigh as a working space to roll it, and after she’d managed to create a slightly disfigured cigarette Andrew held out his box of matches and sat down beside her, just out of arm’s reach. Renee didn’t comment on the distance.

____

The cigarette tasted salty and more than a little disgusting, but she took a couple of drags before stubbing it out on the deck. She blew out the smoke, glad that the breeze would carry it away from them, and then turned to face Andrew straight on.

____

“My name is Natalie Shields” she said, “and I am a sea witch.”

____

Renee told him her story, of how she had grown up on North-East 9 and joined the Bloodsharks when she was ten years old. Andrew didn’t seem phased by any of her struggles, listening in complete silence, his calm expression unchanging. It was a little eerie having such an unimpressed audience, but it was simultaneously reassuring. He wasn’t going to judge or pity her; her past was just that. Her past. She felt lighter with every passing word, and she wondered if this was how those who confessed to her felt. Andrew was no gracekeeper, but he listened to her quietly just as she had to her Resting parties.

____

It felt as dangerous as it did freeing. To give those shadows a voice, give them presence, made her blood hum in her veins, leaving her restless. She remained still only through sheer force of will; she’d grown up with an unbreakable front out of necessity and it was what she defaulted to when she felt threatened. Andrew wasn’t the threat, though. She was.

____

Andrew finished his cigarette and threw it overboard. Renee pursed her lips in disapproval, but didn’t comment. It was too late now, and all she could do was to set a good example. She stubbed out her own cigarette and pocketed it to dispose of later.

____

Renee expected Andrew to get up and go back to his family, as he now knew enough about her ability to help Neil and didn’t seem to have any further questions. But instead he pushed up one of the sleeves of his loose black shirt, to reveal those black wrappings around his forearms. Renee half expected him to untuck the loose end and reveal whatever lay beneath, but instead he reached under the hem and withdrew a short, thin knife. Andrew held the blade as he offered it to her, and him doing so endeared him to her, as if she didn’t know how to handle a sharp blade or two.

____

Renee took the hilt, feeling the weight of it in her hands and finding its balance. She’d expected to feel something, a little sickness at how familiar the knife felt in her hands so many years later, but she felt nothing at all.

____

Andrew watched the way she handled it, likely judging the validity of her story and how natural the knife looked in her hand. Renee didn’t have steel in her veins, she didn’t feel the same call to the blade as she did the sea, but she had spent as many years honing her skills with sharp weapons as she had smothering the magic in her blood. She tested the edge against her fingertips and nodded at how easily her skin peeled up against the slightest pressure.

____

“Are you any good?” Andrew asked.

____

“It’s not really my place to judge,” Renee said.

____

“Without your humility, gracekeeper,” Andrew said. “Such things bore me.”

____

Renee supposed subtlety would bore someone like Andrew, but it was difficult to tell the truth without sounding like she was bragging. She supposed that Andrew wouldn’t really much care for that either. She weighed her word choices and settled for the simplest version. “I never lost.” She turned the knife slowly, and caught a glimpse of the sea in the blade’s reflection. She turned it back so it only reflected the worn wood of the deck. “What about you?”

____

“It’s not my first choice.”

____

Renee held his knife out and waited for him to take it before guessing, “You’re too short to have a useful reach. Back-up, then, for when you can’t finish a fight quickly enough against a larger opponent.”

____

Andrew hummed, which was neither confirmation nor dispute. “Would I need it against you?”

____

“Yes,” Renee said honestly. “But I can’t promise that it would do any good.”

____

Andrew seemed a little amused by this, if the slight twitch in his eyebrow proved anything. “Show me.”

____

“I’m afraid I’ve given up fighting.”

____

“A few years in a lighthouse and you fear death all over again.”

____

“I’ve always feared death,” Renee said. “Don’t you?”

____

“Death is unavoidable,” Andrew said as he slipped the blade under his sleeve again.

____

“How many knives do you carry?” Renee asked as she watched the weapon disappear.

____

Andrew ignored that. “Fight me.”

____

“I can’t.”

____

“You can’t or you won’t?”

____

Renee lifted her gaze from his sleeve to his face. His gaze held a challenge, and the sea called for violence. She knew it was dangerous to smother the waves, as the Bloodsharks had told her, but for years she hadn’t seen any other option. In the graceyard there were so few people in her presence and that isolation had been a safe haven of sorts. On the _Foxhole_ every single crew member could become an accidental target to the ocean’s fury. Renee wouldn’t have a choice if she succumbed to its power. Perhaps Andrew could provide some sort of outlet, a willing opponent who could defend himself from her wrath.

____

Andrew was still watching her, waiting for a reaction. Renee didn’t know what he expected it to be.

____

“Not now,” Renee said eventually. “I won’t fight you with witnesses.”

____

“Tonight,” Andrew said.

____

‘Tonight,” Renee agreed, and she felt the currents reverse as they finally left the doldrums and crossed the equator.

____

____

__**rudder** \ ˈrə-dər \ an underwater blade positioned at the stern of a boat that when turned, causes the vessel's head to turn in the same direction__

**A** fter the sun set and the Foxes returned to their coracles, Renee waited for Allison and Dan to fall asleep. With winds to fight once more, the crew of the _Foxhole Circus_ were more tired than they had been in days, and wouldn’t wake easily. It gave Renee and Andrew a window of silence and they wouldn’t likely be interrupted.

____

She climbed across to the _Foxhole’_ s deck and found Andrew waiting for her.

____

“Oh, she came,” Andrew said, though he didn’t get up from where he sat cross-legged on the deck. “A woman of her word. What a novelty.”

____

“Honesty, or honest women?” Renee asked.

____

Andrew ignored her. Instead he pulled out one knife from his left arm band and one from his right. They were identical, as far as Renee could see, but Andrew considered them both before sliding one across the deck. It came to rest an inch from the toes of Renee’s boots, the tip of the blade pointing toward her.

____

Renee crouched down to pick it up, checking the blade as she stood up. She didn’t feel disappointed at herself for how easily she’d been talked into this fight, and she still didn’t feel unsettled at the familiarity of the knife in her hand. She considered that for a moment. She wondered whether it was a good sign that her past wasn’t haunting her now, but she knew that it was too soon for her to be done atoning.

____

Renee had dressed in Jean’s old shirt, and she now rolled up the sleeves to her elbows, rolling her shoulders and making sure her clothes were loose enough to grant her full movement. She knew she would beat Andrew, but she didn’t want to make it a close call and she didn’t want to go easy on him. It would do neither of them any good.

____

“I feel obligated to warn you that I don’t fight fair,” she said as Andrew rose to his feet and danced his knife across his knuckles. “I would rather respect you by giving this my best shot than slow us both down by being a gentle opponent. You don’t have any reservations about fighting a woman, I suspect?”

____

“Not at all,” Andrew said.

____

Renee’s smile hinted at her usual façade of sweetness. “What a relief. This might be actually interesting then.”

____

Renee wasn’t sure which of them moved first, or if they both broke at the same second. She didn’t think, just moved, and within a couple blows her assumption that she would win was beginning to feel tangible.

____

She wasn’t used to fighting with people who were shorter than she was, but though she had five inches on Andrew he was a little faster than she was. It did surprise her, but she knew she could and would adapt to it. Andrew’s style of fighting was likely untrained, rather picked up out of necessity, but his aggression told her that he primarily used violence to settle disputes and assert dominance.

____

Renee's six years with the North-East 9 Bloodsharks, on the other hand, had been an endless fight for survival. The Sharks had fought each other as stress relief and practice and the rest of the city when defending or stealing territory. She'd defended her body and her reputation with her life. She was slower because she was patient and because she knew how many punches she could take before she was in real trouble. She was willing to give ground as often as necessary if it meant making an opening.

____

Renee didn't think Andrew was used to losing, but she didn't mind reminding him how it felt.

____

Unfortunately—and unsurprisingly—Andrew lacked the good sense to pull out when it was obvious he couldn’t beat her. It quickly became apparent that Renee would have to end this herself. She drove him back toward the main mast until he could step back no further. Stepping into his arm’s reach was inevitably risky, but Renee was quicker to knee him in his side and knock his knife-arm away. An elbow to the chin slammed his head back into the mast and Renee wrapped her arm around his and pulled it at an angle that threatened to dislocate his shoulder. He moved with it instinctively, and a second later Renee had him flat on his back with one knee on his throat, the other pinning his wrist to the deck. Renee pointed the tip of her own knife to his groin.

____

“Enough,” she said.

____

She gave him a moment to react, but he said nothing: neither accepting his defeat nor foolishly challenging her win. Renee nodded anyway and eased off of him. As soon as she had granted him the space to sit up he did so, looking at the knife in his hand.

____

“Your fundamentals are good,” Renee said as she settled to sit cross-legged beside him.

____

Andrew pointed his knife at her. “As you have already said, this did not do me any good. It is a bauble for back-up only.”

____

“You could have chosen a weapon you were more comfortable with.”

____

“I could say the same for you,” Andrew said, with a knowing look sent over the side of the _Foxhole._

____

Renee didn’t let herself dwell on that. “Why did you choose knives?”

____

Andrew shrugged. “It made sense at the time to pick it up. He liked knives and I like beating people at their own game.”

____

Renee’s lungs refused to work for a beat. It took her several heartbeats for her to draw breath again, but even then she didn’t trust her voice. She knew it wasn’t her business to ask who ‘he’ was, and she supposed that the _who_ didn’t matter as much as the rest of it did. Andrew cocked his head to one side and quirked an eyebrow at her. Renee had been caught.

____

“What’s that about, one wonders,” Andrew said.

____

Renee knew that telling him was probably the better choice, the path that led to redemption, but she also needed to side-step that line of thought for her own well being. “You won’t get any better without proper practice,” she said instead. “Spar with me again? Even if it’s just once a week, it would be better than fighting shadows.”

____

“Why the change of heart?” Andrew asked.

____

"Do you know why I learned to fight with knives?" Renee asked. Andrew didn’t reply but she assumed he was still listening since he hadn’t made to leave. “On initiation night to the Bloodsharks I was raped by its eight officers.” The words made Andrew go still as stone and she noticed his fingers tighten around the hilt of his knife. She continued her story with a casualness she wasn’t feeling. “Tradition. After that, most of them left me alone, but one took a special interest in me. He was older than me, bigger than me, and stronger than me, so I had to find a way to fight him. He liked knives.” Andrew flicked her a quick look that she couldn’t decipher, and she didn’t pause long enough to analyse his expression. “I decided to use them against him. I wanted to beat him at his own game, too.”

____

Andrew wasn't smiling anymore, and the intense look in his eyes upended most suspicions that Andrew was past the point of redemption. It was maybe too soon to put her faith in him, but in that moment Renee was willing to believe. He wasn't a good person—probably never had been, never would be—but he was not the soulless, crazy monster that Allison and the other Foxes made him out to be.

____

“Spoil the end of this story for me,” he said after a moment. “Did you kill him?”

____

Renee remembered the soft sand of the beach turned to the slippery seaweed of the blackshore. He’d found her by the docks, thinking she was waiting for a boat to sail her away. He’d believed her when she’d ‘slipped’ and told him that she was leaving the island. He’d thought it his duty to return her to the Bloodsharks as a traitor, an opportunity to grant good favour with the other officers and take the Bloodsharks to the ocean, presiding over an entirely new reign of terror.

____

He’d not anticipated her hiding a knife nor that she knew how to use it.

____

Renee didn’t remember much of the fight. She didn’t remember particular moves or hits, just an endless cycle of slashes and cuts and fury and vengeance. When she finally had him on his back, she held the knife to his throat. His own lay several feet away, half buried in the seaweed. The sea would reclaim it soon.

____

He expected that she would kill him with steel. But it wasn’t steel that ruled her mind.

____

_You want the sea so much?_ she’d said, voice eerily calm. _Then I shall give you the sea._

____

Renee hadn’t remembered the blades, but she had remembered the water. She could recall exactly how it felt to let that dam crumble, let those protective walls she had spent years building within herself go. She remembered the first few tentative drops of power.

____

In that moment Natalie had been grateful for all the failures, for every minute she spent practicing gave her the strength now to keep the magic flowing through her. The sea’s lapping waves was a steady rhythm behind her, an anchor, giving her a base to guide her own tides. All around her she could only feel the ocean. The beach had gone. The island had gone. It was just her and the sea and the man who had spent five years abusing her.

____

He wouldn’t live to see the sunrise.

____

Renee had lifted her hand to the side of his head, her thumb pressed into his temple and her fingertips digging into the seaweed. It hadn’t taken much of a push, in the end. A simple beckoning, an allowance, and the sea within her began to roar. Seafoam began to rise from the blackshore and, climbing up her fingertips, began to lick at his skin like flames. A steady stream of saltwater followed it, guided by the planes of his face to find the hollows of his eye sockets and began to pool. She could see him squint in defiance, refusing entry, but the sea would always win out against feeble humanity. His body arched against her, thrashing, trying to throw him off, but the weight of the sea above him was too much. His fingers clawed at Natalie’s arms but her skin wouldn’t break. He brought his hands forward and tried to claw the water off of his face but it was far too late for him.

____

Natalie saw the moment his veins ran a brilliant blue in his hands and arms.

____

Saltwater and seafoam ran from his nose in rivulets down his face like tears. His mouth opened in a silent scream as bursts of coral began to break out and creep from beneath his fingernails. They grew and climbed over his hands in bright colours of pink and orange and red and yellow. An entire reef would grow and die overnight, but its short lived glory would never be forgotten. Foam and water was still running from his face, staining his shirt and spraying on Natalie like rain. It crawled over her skin too, but a caress to his intrusion. His lips peeled back from his teeth into a snarl, and his hands rose to clasp around Natalie’s throat, but the coral spread onto Natalie’s skin and hardened around her neck in protection. She could breathe, and the sea was breathing for her.

____

His face had twisted half in rage and half in agony, and where coral began to meet saltwater it hardened and grew faster still, spreading across his shoulders and neck and face until it reached his mouth and began to grow inside of there too. His roar of anger was soon strangled.

____

Natalie had risen then, when his thrashing body could no longer move. His legs no longer jerked though they were not yet encased. His eyes hadn’t glazed over so much as crusted over. Natalie had imagined that if she tapped its shell with her knife it would crumble away into the hollows. She hadn’t tested that theory, but she had smiled at the thought. She had stood up, looking down at where he would forever lie, half encased in coral and shrouded by seaweed. Natalie had no idea what the islanders would say happened to him, and she didn’t much care whether it would be the truth or not. The sea had claimed him, as she would one day claim them all.

____

Natalie had had options. She could have carried his body out to sea and dropped him in, washing away any evidence that she had been involved at all. She could have chosen revenge, and carried out the same violence to each of the remaining seven officers who had dared to think her inferior. She could have chosen forgiveness, to return to the Bloodsharks and offer them her service as his replacement.

____

Instead she had remained on the blackshore until the sun rose and the islanders found her and his corpse. They already suspected her of evil, and now they had the grounds to prove it. They had shackled her hands and encased them in clay, as if the earth had any business of smothering the sea, and then they had taken her halfway across the world to a lighthouse surrounded by dying birds.

____

Renee exhaled and focused on the feel of the smooth wood beneath her. The deck of the _Foxhole,_ she reminded herself. She named the presence before her as Andrew, a Fox.

____

“Eventually,” she said at length. “I knew he’d kill me if I lost, so I waited until I was sure I could take him. But yes, when the time came I won and he died.” Absentmindedly she ran her finger under the hem of one of her gloves. “I’m waiting to feel sorry for it, but all these years later I still can’t repent. But every morning I remember what I let myself become.” She exhaled and handed Andrew’s knife back to him. “I am out of practice, for sure, but I remember enough of that, too. Do you want to spar with me?”

____

“You are the strangest gracekeeper I have ever met,” Andrew said, taking the knife and sliding it under his left arm band.

____

“Have you met many?” Renee asked.

____

“Of course. I used to be one.”

____

Renee’s breath hitched. His revelation had surprised her, to say the least. She recalled the first time she saw Andrew, when the _Foxhole_ had stopped at Renee’s graceyard. She had thought he could become a good gracekeeper, but she had never imagined that he had already been one.

____

She had many, many questions, but she first settled for one. “How did you wind up on a circus boat?”

____

“I built a sail and rudder for my rowing boat and saved enough food and water to get me out of the doldrums. I passed a revival ship, and planned on hitching a ride in exchange for hard labour. Turns out their next stop was where Aaron and his family lived.”

____

“You don’t consider them your family too?” Renee asked.

____

Andrew shook his head once. “Blood means nothing to me.”

____

Renee mused over that, and wondered how it was that a man who claimed family meant nothing cared so much about those he promised to protect. She wondered if it was about choice, about knowing that he could choose who he wanted in his life and knowing that they would choose him back without question. It wasn’t about the coincidence of blood ties, but the surety of free will. Andrew had promised to protect them as his way of showing how much they meant to him.

____

It made her think of Neil, and how much Andrew must be hurting to not know whether he was safe or not, to not have him at his side.

____

“We’ll get him back, Andrew,” she said, though she didn’t expect her words would comfort him nearly as much as having Neil back on the _Foxhole_ would.

____

“I am never leaving you alone with Nicky again,” Andrew said. A second later he was gone, sailing past her and over the side of the _Foxhole_ to return to the coracles.

____

Renee waited a little while, feeling the gentle breeze cool her face and soothe her aching muscles. She whispered back to it, asking for its help to guide them to Neil a little faster.

 _ ___


	13. twelve

**jacob’s ladder** \ ˈjā-kəbz-ˈla-dər \ a rope ladder with wooden rungs used to access a ship from the side

 **T** wo days passed and Allison spent most of her time with Renee. It was strange, having her so close by after months of only being able to write. She could pick apart how Renee’s spoken words differed from those written, and with the addition of expressions and tone of voice Allison felt she understood Renee more and more. Their conversations flowed smoother, and those beats on silence gained an aspect of calmness that they didn’t have before. There was no expectant waiting for another response, but rather the chance to simply look and breathe and feel each other’s presence. Allison had never felt comfortable in silence with anyone before, but sitting together quietly on the deck of the _Foxhole_ settled her in a way she didn’t think possible.

It made her feel all the more excited when their silences were filled with words and their shared moments shared with action. Allison was used to telling Renee stories of the world, but she also wanted to _show_ her.

They pulled up at South-West 14 to gather information on the _Evermore’_ s whereabouts, and by sunset they had discovered that they had almost caught up. A day’s journey, at most. The crew had argued over whether to sail through the night or to stop and rest, and eventually decided to stay. They would need all the energy they could get, and there was little else to do on an island so small. There were few landlockers here, only the barren landscape and salty shore.

They anchored the _Foxhole_ and the crew started to furl the sails and secure the rigging. Renee offered the help, but her gloves made it hard for her to knot the rope, and she still refused to go bare-handed. Allison didn’t complain, but she thought her secrecy a little ridiculous. Did she not think that the crew knew she was hiding something? Allison thought it would be better if she just ripped off the bandage, but Allison wasn’t going to out her. She knew what would happen if landlockers saw—burn her alive, tie her to some sacred tree, cut out her heart and eat it on a slice of bread—and Renee had probably grown too used to hiding.

The Foxes returned to their coracles when the sun dipped low into the sea and the stars started to shine brighter against their night black sky. After Dan clipped the canvas shut overhead, she raised questioning eyebrows at Allison when she didn’t immediately get ready for bed. Allison shook her head slightly when Renee’s back was turned, and Dan rolled her eyes. She mouthed, _don’t wake me up when you get back,_ and rolled over to face the hull.

“What are you waiting for?” Renee asked when she saw Allison still sitting on her bed in her day clothes.

When Allison hummed in question, Renee gestured to her own face. Allison then remembered that she was still wearing a shimmer of lilac powder under her eyebrows. Any chance of a surprise had drifted away.

“Come on,” she said, standing up and heading toward the ladder at the end of her coracle. “I have something to show you.”

With anyone else, Allison would have expected a brief protest regarding the time, considering that they had done very little during the day, but Renee was silent as she rose to her feet. Once Allison unclipped the canvas, Allison turned to look at Renee. The bright eye of the moon lit a blurred circle on the floor of the coracle, but Allison focused on the way it made Renee’s hair shine and light the curves and hollows of her face so dramatically it was almost like stage makeup. Allison wondered what Renee’s act would be, but the answer was obvious. Renee was a witch, and the world needed to see magic.

Allison offered Renee a hand to help her out of the coracle, and then she felt a little cocky. She did a little leap, a flirty pirouette, as she stepped off of her coracle and onto Nicky and Aaron’s. A cloud had passed by and darkened the moon, so it was impossible to see whether Renee had smiled or laughed at Allison’s theatrics, but Allison liked to think that she had.

The canvas of Nicky and Aaron’s coracle sagged a little in the middle—Nicky or Aaron had forgotten to pull its edges tight—and Allison felt Renee stumble as she stepped onto it. Allison imagined the thud of her knees against the edge of the coracle, the undignified tumble as she toppled over. Before she knew what she was doing, she reached out and caught Renee’s hand, stopping her from falling. Renee clutched her hand tightly before loosening her grip, but still holding on. They crouched together in the darkness, hands pressed and breathing in rhythm. Nicky and Aaron were both deep sleepers.

After a few more moments, Allison rose upright once more and Renee followed her across to Kevin, Andrew, and Neil’s coracle. Allison didn’t know what the layout of their bunks was like, as she had never been invited inside and wasn’t going to push her luck and snoop around. She imagined that Andrew and Neil shared a bunk though, as space was always tight even for two men as short as they were. It was hard to imagine the Monster feeling anything, but she didn’t think he would like having an empty bed to himself after sharing it with someone he loved.

They kept their fingers linked as they quietly crossed the coracles until they reached the chain attaching the coracles to the _Foxhole._ Allison climbed up first and didn’t wait for Renee when she crossed the deck and ducked down into the hold. Renee didn’t follow her inside, so Allison was fortunate enough to witness the moment Renee realised what they would be doing. Renee’s eyes landed on the swimfins and the lungs, and widened.

Before Allison could ask, Renee spoke. “Oh, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?” Allison asked.

“I can’t go in the water. It’s not safe.”

Allison laughed at that. “It’s safer for you than it is for anyone.”

Renee glowered a little, and the sight made Allison’s smile widen. She liked to see Renee’s feathers unruffled, to have the chance to peek behind Renee’s mask.

“Come on,” Allison coaxed. “There’s so much down there that I want to show you.”

“Allison, I won’t judge you for wanting to see bones and rotting—”

“We’re out of the graceyards so don’t give me that excuse.” She waited a moment to see if Renee would respond, and when she didn’t, Allison added: “The sea is full of secrets, aren’t you curious?”

Renee pulled her lips together, looking out toward the water. Allison could see she was curious, but she knew not to push too hard and too fast. This wasn’t something Renee could simply dive into and learn to swim. So instead Allison held out her hand and Renee tentatively took it. She allowed Allison to tug her along until they reached Jacob's ladder, rolled up and secured. Allison set it free, and winced at the clatter it made when it hit the side of the _Foxhole._ Allison beckoned Renee forward, and after a beat of hesitation Renee climbed down. Allison could only follow.

When they neared the surface of the water, Renee stopped. Allison stopped too, and used a rung of the ladder as a seat, balancing the lungs and swimfins across her lap.

“You’re fine,” she said. “You can swim. And I am right here. Dip your toes in the water.”

“I’ll sit,” Renee said, and did so. The breeze caught at her short hair and flipped it back and forth.

“Feet,” Allison repeated.

“Must I?”

Allison nodded, though Renee couldn’t see. “Yes.”

Renee released a rather dramatic sigh that made Allison smile, but she watched as Renee unlaced and slipped off her boot, pausing a moment before launching it up in the air. It sailed over the side of the _Foxhole,_ and from the _thud,_ they both knew it had landed somewhere on the deck. 

Renee must have dipped her toes into the water, because she let out a little gasp. Allison wanted to capture that sound in her lips, hear it echo close by her ear. She shivered, and she doubted it was from the breeze.

When she trusted her voice, she said, “There. Not so bad, is it?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Allison grinned and poked her in the shoulder with her toe. Renee reached back and batted her foot away with a warning glare and a smile tugging at her lips.

“You like it, don’t you,” Allison said, half in question and half in taunt.

Renee sighed and looked back down to her feet, down to the water, down to where flesh and sea were connected at last.

“I do,” she said quietly. “I like it a lot.”

“Come on, then,” Allison said, and prodded Renee’s shoulder once more, this time with the edge of the swimfin. Renee took them with a nod and wrapped her arms around the rope for balance as she pulled each one onto her feet. Allison’s eyes lingered on Renee’s biceps, but when Renee turned around again for the lung, Allison’s gaze snapped up. Renee’s eyebrow was quirked, and Allison refused to back down. She didn’t know what to say, though, so instead she leaned over the side and dropped the lungs into the water. They landed with a sucking noise, cupping air between the water and the glass sphere. Allison stood up on the ladder and stepped around to climb down the other side. She met Renee’s gaze through the negative space between two rungs, and paused. Neither of them said anything, just looked at each other for a moment, and then a moment more. They were close, but the ladder hung between them, forming a flimsy sort of barrier. To push through it had to be an active choice, and one Allison wasn’t sure she was ready to make yet. Renee wouldn’t stay on the _Foxhole_ for long, and she knew that whatever they shared between them wasn’t fleeting. It needed time to grow, but time wasn’t something they had. She wasn’t sure that it would be worth the heartache.

Allison broke eye contact first and slid into the water. It was cold, as it always was, and her lungs tightened in her chest. Her skin stung, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she grew used to its cold embrace. She looked up, and found the ladder empty, save for the white gloves stark against the dark side of the ship. After a brief moment of panic, Allison saw Renee surface a foot in front of her.

“Hi,” Renee said, and Allison realised then that she had been staring at her again.

“Hi,” Allison said back. The sea seemed to swallow their words, but Renee was a good translator of the water. She smiled. A bead of water slipped down from her slicked back hair and down her temple, over her cheekbone, down her cheek and ran down her jaw. Allison wanted to follow its trail with her fingertip, but she kept her hands to herself.

Renee didn’t seem to have the same inclination. Allison felt Renee’s hand brush against her own under the water, and Allison looked down to see but the water was too dark to see anything definitive. All she could tell was that Renee’s hand was bare, like it had been the other night, and her skin was cool and smooth. Their fingers linked, and it was then that Allison realised that it wasn’t the water that was too dark to smother their shape.

Renee’s hands were covered, fingertip to wrist, with thin black tattoos. Each line was only an inch long, but they almost covered the surface of her skin in a pattern of waves. Allison wasn’t sure how comfortable Renee was with her looking, considering that the last time Renee had allowed their skin to touch like this was under the cover of night in the safety of their coracle, so she looked up. Renee was already looking at her, expression unreadable. Allison longed to be able to pick apart all of Renee’s expressions, to simply know what she was feeling by the shape of her eyebrow and curve of her lips, but she knew they would have to spend more time in each other’s physical presence for that. It was a challenge Allison was ready to take.

Allison reached for the bobbing lungs beside them, and tipped them to refresh the air. “Keep a hold of the rim,” she said. “And keep it upright or you lose your air. If you think you’re gonna run out, surface just in case. Try to breathe evenly rather than shallowly.”

Renee nodded, and Allison placed one of the lungs over Renee’s head, biting at the inside of her cheek to stop her from smiling when Renee ducked her head as if accepting a crown. The thick glass of the lung was scratched, but she knew that it wasn’t scratched enough to stop Renee from catching her smile.

Once she was sure that Renee’s lung was resting flat on the water’s surface, Allison settled her own lung. When it felt steady, she looked back to Renee. Renee nodded and smiled uncertainly through the clouded glass.

“Let’s go,” Allison said, her words echoing inside the glass sphere of her lung.

She looked back to the water, and found the moon reflecting on the surface, turning the world monochrome. Allison got a grip on her lung, and Renee did the same. When they were both ready, they twisted their bodies in the water and kicked their feet off the hull of the _Foxhole_ to force their lungs underwater.

For a long time, all Allison could see was black. In every direction. The lungs in her chest tightened, but the glass lung around her head would hold up under the increasing water pressure. She blinked hard, trying to force her eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to focus on. There was no sense of scale; they might as well be floating in outer space, alone in the universe. Her breathing seemed loud and wet in the confines of the lung, but it was steady. She knew what she was doing.

She turned to check on Renee, and saw that light had caught in the scratches on her lung, reflecting it back so that Allison couldn’t see her expression. Renee was still kicking, though, so Allison turned around again and kept going. She knew that above them ranged the underside of all the other boats docked at South-West 14, but below them spread the entire sea floor. Allison couldn’t see any of it yet, but she would soon.

As they swam, the sea brought back the muted booms and distant keens of whalesong. It felt like music, a rhythm in time to the tidal beat of her heart. She kept listening, until, eventually, she heard the sound of a bell ringing. It wasn’t long before shapes in the darkness started to appear.

Below their feet, moonlight slid off a rooftop. Allison turned to see Renee’s reaction, and her eyes were wide. She let out another gasp of surprise, though the sound came out tinny and muffled. Allison didn’t mind.

They swam a little deeper, and one moment they were floating, submerged in the black of the sea; the next, a spotlight of moon appeared, and there was the city.

Dim light bleached the world silver, like they were swimming within the white yarn of Allison’s braids or the shimmering paint she wore on stage. They swum past mosaics of landbirds, enameled carriages like those Allison knew from her home island. There were flowing weeds of purple flowers that Allison didn’t recognise, and countless other plants that Allison had seen on other skin-diving trips. Fish flickered through every open window, and below them, the sea floor sparkled with shattered glass. Allison remembered that the glass of their lungs was sturdier than that of old landlocker windows, but she knew they couldn’t swim much deeper.

Floating along the flooded streets, Allison watched Renee gripping her lung tight as she turned her head this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of anything and everything. Together they tiptoed along the top of a tower, and Allison sat down beside the stone face of a gargoyle. She caressed its grisselled and eroded face to make Renee laugh, and her heart shone with pride when it worked. Down the salt-smoothed gutters of a church roof, Allison ducked into the bell tower to show Renee the enormous, wrought-iron bell. She figured it had to have been the one to lead them to the city. The clapper inside was far too heavy for a person to move; only a strong current could have caused it to chime. Renee smoothed her hand along its surface, and after a moment or two, Allison took that hand and led her further on.

A horse’s head, tall as a tower block, loomed toward them with its nostrils flaring. It could have seemed menacing, but one of its stone ears had broken off and algae rimmed its eyes. Allison led Renee past the horse and onward through a menagerie of stone animals. She trod water, kicking her swimfins delicately while Renee stopped to run her hand along the back of a deer, its antlers tangled with seaweed.

Allison would never understand the clams’ obsession with animals that could never survive the sea. The land had once held great importance in the world, but the sea had swallowed it inch by inch. Everything that was once glorious, built on rock and earth, was no more now than the crumbling remains of a drowned kingdom. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this city as what it once was. She imagined the gates could swing open with a blasting of trumpets, gold curlicues gleaming bright as the sun. She imagined rooms furnished with blue marble fireplaces and silver satin carpets. Carved birds were caged, like Renee’s graces, only their beaks were enamel and they sang only clockwork songs.

This world was hollow, and when Allison opened her eyes once more, she saw reality: life. Who could choose a stagnant throne over the freedom of the wind? In shallow water these structures were visible—they’d all seen them—but they were just rock formations that people imagined into palaces.

Allison looked to Renee, who had swum to her side once more and waited to see if they could explore further. Allison wanted to, but the city was large and their lungs were small. They had to leave now and surface, or stay down here forever. She remembered Renee’s tattoos, and the messages that could be spoken across the ocean, and wondered if Renee could survive down here. Maybe this drowned kingdom was simply waiting for its king.

Allison turned away from the city and straightened her body in the water. Beside her, Renee did the same, and they both kicked their swimfins to bring them back to the surface.

Allison pushed off her lung and gasped at the air. After the stale heat of her own breath, the harbour smells were overwhelming. Judging by Renee’s expression, the smell of soil and saltwater were equally pungent to her. They pulled themself back aboard the _Foxhole,_ water sluicing off their bodies as they climbed the ladder. When Allison looked over the top, she was glad to find that the crew weren’t waiting for them, awoken by the thud of Renee’s boots. Without a word, Renee collected her boots from where they had landed earlier, and pulled them onto her wet feet, holding her swimfins and lung under her arm. After rolling up the jacob’s ladder and clipping it in place, Allison put the skin-diving equipment back in the hold to dry.

Before they headed to their coracle for the night, Allison sat down on the deck of the _Foxhole_ to unwrap her headscarf and wring it dry. It wasn’t as wet as it could have been, but it would still need washing in the morning, along with her hair. She watched Renee attempt to ring dry her shirt—a lost cause, Allison knew—as she tallied up what she and Dan had in their stores: avocado, coconut, apple cider vinegar. She wouldn’t need to skip a wash this month.

Renee didn’t speak until they’d both changed into their sleep clothes and tucked themselves into their bunks.

“It’s from before, isn’t it?” she whispered. “It’s where people used to live when there was still land.”

Allison nodded, though Renee wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. “Yeah. Before the sea claimed it back.”

Renee hummed at that, and this time it was Renee who reached out first. Both their fingertips were a little wrinkled from the sea, but Allison found that they fitted together all the same.

**bulwark** \ ˈbə-ˌläk \ the side of a ship above the upper deck

 **I** t took them almost the entire day to catch up with the _Evermore._ Once they saw the black sails on the horizon, Wymack set the _Foxhole’_ s course to follow. They were smaller than the Ravens’ ship, but it was obvious that the _Evermore_ was sailing much slower than it could. Allison thought it was an ostentatious power display, but her scowl was wasted on a boat too far away to notice her displeasure.

The _Evermore’_ s wake was strong and erratic, but the _Foxhole_ was just large enough to keep steady without too much interference on Wymack’s part.

Allison and Renee, stood at the prow staring across at the hulking mass of the _Evermore._ As they approached closer and closer, and a ghostly glimpse of South-West 13 appeared on the horizon, Renee noticed the trail of oil and filth in the water.

“What is that?” Renee asked, leaning over the bulwarks to peer down at it. Allison stepped forward to grasp hold of her shirt and tug her backwards. She certainly wasn’t going to ruin her clothes by jumping in after her.

Allison peered over the side to look at the blackened water. She could just make out the frayed ends of rope, the hollow bones of birds, dirty sponges, and scraps of fabric sewn with beads. “Debris,” she told Renee. “The _Evermore_ is probably as clean as fishbones because they throw out all their shit behind them.”

“But what about everyone else?” Renee asked, frowning over her shoulder at Allison. “What about their boats?”

Allison didn’t immediately reply, wrinkling her nose at the foul smell that came with the next breeze. She heard footsteps behind her, and Allison turned to see Seth making his way over. His expression didn’t seem particularly displeased, but Seth was a dampling and had grown up around these smells.

“What about them?” he asked Renee. “The bastards in boats like that are too high up to care.”

“Everyone else scavenges and reuses until their things fall apart. Everything can be used for something, don’t they know that? If they don’t need something, they should share it.”

Seth scowled: not at Renee, but at the ship over her shoulder. “They’re rich,” he said, as if that explained it all. “They don’t have to scratch around for every single thing they eat or touch or use, and because of that they think they have more value than we do. The world is dying to give them anything they want. All they have to do is ask for it.”

Allison scoffed. “They can ask all they want but North-East 10 aren’t going to let them back. Riko can drop half his ship into the sea for all the Moriyamas care.”

Renee nodded in acknowledgement, and turned back to the _Evermore._ Allison followed her gaze, and they spent the rest of the journey to South-West 13 in anticipation.

**brig** \ ˈbrig \ a place for temporary confinement aboard a ship

 **B** y the time the _Foxhole_ was docked a few spaces down from the _Evermore,_ the Foxes were an anxious, angry mess. Renee was sympathetic; she had only met Neil once and hadn’t spoken to him, but she knew enough about him from the Foxes’ stories to want his return immensely. Waiting for nightfall only worsened their attitude. The _Circus Evermore_ didn’t perform during the day, and the _Foxhole_ had docked at South-West 13 before the sunset. Dan had checked her pocketwatch ten times in the last fifteen minutes, and at the eleventh quick peek, Renee reached out and clasped Dan’s hand. She gave it a small squeeze.

“We will be able to go soon,” she said.

Dan exhaled. “As soon as the music starts.”

Renee nodded in confirmation. The music from the _Circus Evermore’_ s show would signal that the landlockers were allowed to board the _Evermore,_ which meant the majority of the Ravens would be behindcurtains preparing for their acts or entertaining from within the crowds. Dan, Matt, and Andrew were to sneak aboard and find wherever the Ravens were keeping Neil. Kevin had made extensive technical drawings of the ship, and had pinpointed the likely areas Neil would be kept. Renee suspected that Neil would be held in the brig, though she knew the Foxes would check there first. Kevin had shakily volunteered to go, claiming that he would be able to navigate the ship easier than the others, but Andrew had refused to let Kevin near Riko, as per their promise, and that the Ravens would be able to recognise Kevin with ease. It was only the latter that swayed Kevin; it seemed that he was willing to put himself at risk for the sake of Neil’s return. Renee couldn’t imagine that kind of unquestioning loyalty, but the Foxes had it in bucketloads.

Renee thought she might have been the first on board to hear the dark melody and heavy drumbeat of the Ravens’ entrance song, but Andrew was a close second.

“Are we ready yet?” Allison asked, pacing back and forth. She reclaimed her spot at Renee's side and flicked a cursory, contemptuous look at the island.

“Patience is a virtue,” Renee said.

Seth barked out an unpleasant laugh. “Who needs those these days? Was it virtue that left you a gracekeeper?”

Dan pointed a warning finger at him. “Seth. Shut it.”

Renee turned to her. “I wasn’t trying to make things difficult for you by being here.”

“Don’t let him get to you,” Dan told her. “We’re happy you’re here to help.”

Renee let her have the last word. A moment later, Dan stood up and she, Matt, and Andrew made their way down to the dock. Silence fell upon the rest of them.

Five minutes into their wait, Renee started to think she had been hypocritical when she told Seth that patience was a virtue. It was true, in the sense that she believed patience was an admirable trait, but it was a trait she didn’t think she possessed. Every passing second was corded with thorns that hooked into and dragged at her composure.

What felt like an eternity later, but was really only sixteen minutes, the others returned.

Neil was not with them.

The Foxes’ reactions ranged from disappointment to anger to confusion. Aaron and Nicky didn’t say anything, they just stared at Andrew. Renee watched him too to see what they were looking for, but she didn’t think she knew him well enough to find whatever Aaron and Nicky would. She flicked her gaze back to Dan, who held up a hand to silence her crew. “We couldn’t get onto the _Evermore,”_ she said resignedly. “Kathy Ferdinand saw us and told us to leave.”

“You should have ignored her!” Seth protested.

“She would have alerted the Ravens,” Matt said. “Which would have made it harder for us to find Neil. Riko would have hidden him more carefully.”

“So why bother coming back?” Aaron asked, and the Foxes seemed surprised to hear his voice. Renee joined their gazes to look at him, but Aaron was still staring at Andrew. “Is this it? You’ve given up? The _Baltimore_ was just a one-off, then? You couldn’t find Neil within ten minutes so _oh well, better luck next time?”_

Andrew moved. Renee had thought Andrew was fast when they had been sparring, but it was nothing compared to the speed in which Andrew leapt at his brother now. Renee jumped up from her seat and tried to dart between them, but she was too slow. Andrew had shoved past the others in a heartbeat and had grabbed a fistful of Aaron’s shirt to push him to the floor. Andrew leaned over him with his fist pulled back, ready to swing. But his fist hovered in the air by his head, shaking with the effort to restrain himself. His expression was twisted with fury, but still he didn’t punch his brother. His hesitation gave Renee enough time to grab Andrew’s forearm and loosen his grip from Aaron.

It also gave Wymack enough time to stand from his seat beside Abby and say, “Andrew get off him.”

Andrew ignored them both. It was Nicky who tried to talk Andrew down next, but he kept his hands away from Andrew, only slowly dropped to his knees and slid a hand across the worn deck. He curled his fingers around Aaron’s and gave his hand a tight squeeze in support.

“Andrew,” he started. There was a tremor of nervousness in his tone but he kept going. “Andrew, it’s just Aaron. Okay? You promised.”

“I. Know,” Andrew said through gritted teeth.

“Damn it, Andrew,” Matt said, with a ferocity that was more fear than anger. Matt looked like it was killing him to stay put, but Renee was grateful for his self-control.

Dan stood ashen-faced and frozen at Matt’s side, but she didn’t interfere either. It wasn’t because she didn’t care for Aaron—and Renee did take note over how protective the Foxes were over Aaron, when the latter seemed to care little for them in return—but because they knew that challenging Andrew in that moment would raise a storm, and they didn’t have time for it.

They only had one night to get Neil back and they couldn’t waste it on their internal fighting. Andrew was clearly torn about hurting Aaron and lashing out for what he had said about Neil, but Renee knew appealing to his better nature wouldn’t work. She knew that if it had been anyone but Aaron who had said it—with the exception of Kevin and maybe Nicky—Andrew would have no worries about hurting them.

She tried to remember what Allison had told her of Andrew and Neil’s relationships. More often than not they were each other’s impulse control, but Allison had never gone into any detail about how Neil had managed to calm Andrew down.

She didn’t have time to second-guess herself, though. She dove down within herself to find the flicker of Natalie, and pulled her out like her past had been caught on a fish hook. She resisted the urge to stretch out her fingers.

“Andrew, that’s enough,” she said. She wouldn’t use magic on him, she had vowed to never touch another person with it again, but she knew that she had to do something to distract him from Aaron and bring his attention to her. She let a flicker of lightning crackle between her fingers like webbing, scorching her gloves. She knew the others wouldn’t see anything, and the smell of burnt leather wouldn’t be strong enough over the smell of the sea and the island. But Andrew would be able to feel the heat of it.

She wasn’t sure that she had Andrew’s attention until he said, “Finally picked a side?”

“I’m not your enemy, Andrew. And neither is Aaron. We all want the same thing.” She paused, but Andrew was still curled over Aaron’s legs and Renee wasn’t certain whether Andrew would back off if she moved. She couldn’t risk it.

Renee knew she couldn’t make Andrew choose between Aaron and Neil. It wasn’t her place, and she knew it wouldn’t get them any closer to saving Neil.

“We don’t have time for this,” she said. “We only have one night to get Neil back, and the show won’t last forever.”

Andrew’s mouth gave a violent twitch, a grimace he forcibly repressed, and he finally looked up at her. The darkness in his stare was something Renee was all too familiar with, and she let Natalie look back. Mirrored black hearts met, twisting stories of suffering and survival. He stared at her for another endless moment, then lent back so he was sitting on his knees. With the immediate threat out of the way, Renee expected retribution from the others, but they stayed silent when she held her hand out in warning.

Renee nodded at Andrew, and moved back. Aaron had the space now to sit up, and he and Andrew stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment, before Andrew looked away in the direction of the _Evermore._

Allison was the first of their audience to move. She stepped forward and hovered behind Renee for a moment, before crouching down to say, “Don’t do that again. I don’t trust him not to hurt you.”

Renee tilted her head toward her in acknowledgement. She wanted to lean in to her and bury muffled reassurances into Allison’s neck, but instead she let Allison help her to her feet. Renee remained a physical barricade between Andrew and the others, but she spoke to all of them when she said, “They don’t know my face.” She gave Allison an apologetic look, and hoped that Allison would forgive her when she returned. “They won’t stop me because they won’t know that I am one of you. I can sneak aboard the _Evermore_ and find Neil on my own.”

“Absolutely not,” Allison said fiercely, grabbing Renee’s wrist as if it would hold her in place.

“That’s a stupid plan,” Dan agreed.

“Reckless,” Renee corrected her, “due to an unforgivable arrogance. I’m working on it, I promise, but humility can wait. This is our best option, and I can do it.”

Dan gave a wary look to the _Evermore,_ where the gathering crowds were still filing into the ship. “What, are you going to preach peace at them?”

“That’s always an option,” Renee said, though she doubted that would work.

“Then I recommend the alternative option.”

Renee heard the reluctant agreement from her quartermaster. She knew Dan’s word held authority over the rest of the crew, and she felt the weight of it on her own shoulders. Renee wouldn’t be a Fox for long, but she would be one tonight.

She turned to Allison. She didn’t know if she could go without her blessing. Allison’s acceptance seemed more important to her than anything else in the world.

Allison stared at her fiercely. “You better not get caught. If you get yourself arrested I will never speak to you again.”

“Allison,” Renee replied quietly, and dared to step forward and bring their faces closer and closer until their foreheads touched. Allison’s eyes were scrunched shut. Renee closed hers, and let herself breathe Allison in. She didn’t know if she could move, if she could ever step away and put space between them again, but she had to.

“Allison,” she repeated. A prayer, a chant, an incantation. “I will come back to you.”

Allison tugged at the gracefeather around her neck, and her whisper was a prayer of its own. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

**league** \ ˈlēg \ a unit of distance equal to three nautical miles

 **R** enee had known the _Evermore_ was a large ship when she saw it in the distance, but standing on the dock with crowds of islanders around her, it seemed to loom over them all. It was large enough to house a whale in length, and its lack of windows made it seem to almost fade into the night, only it blocked out every star. The _Evermore_ was a piece of starless sky, taking the shape of a three-masted ship.

She found it unnerving, but she knew she had to appear at least a little excited if she were to go unnoticed. No one would recognise her, for gracekeepers only served damplings and Renee was born hundreds of leagues away, but she didn’t want to appear suspiciously wary. She plastered on a smile, and then bit it down as if she were trying to hide her excitement.

In her head she repeated Kevin’s instructions on navigating the ship, and mused over possible complications. It occupied her thoughts as she and the rest of the crowd were ushered on board. Once the stage came into view, the crowd split. Damplings and landlockers. Renee noticed a few men in the black coats of the military standing at the back of the landlocker stands, so she headed to the dampling section. She took a seat right at the back and at the edge, moving slowly with her head bowed so that no one would notice her. She and the rest of the crowd sat in anticipation, but for entirely different reasons.

When a spotlight hit the black curtains and the ringmaster stepped out, it took Renee a moment to realise that it was not Tetsuji Moriyama, but Riko. He was no longer the thirteen year old boy Renee remembered from her childhood, but a young man who walked with an air of absolute power and authority. It didn’t matter that his family exiled him from his home island; his home was on the most famous circus boat of all, and damplings and landlockers alike all sold their most precious goods for a chance of an evening on it. If Riko was king, the _Evermore_ was his castle.

The crowd seemed to pick up on the ringmaster’s identity soon after Renee did. “King! King! King!” they chanted, in unison with the heavy beat of the music. They fell silent when Riko smashed his cane down onto the deck. Renee realised the tip must have been coated with something because red sparks flew from the tip, causing the crowd to break their silence and gasp. Riko seemed to be walking fine without it, so Renee assumed he was only using it for the theatrics. Renee suppressed an unimpressed eyebrow raise, one that reminded her of Allison. On stage, displays of the unknown was something to cheer for, but when Renee did it on the blackshore? She shook her head. Bitterness was unbecoming.

WELCOME TO THE EVERMORE, Riko shouted once the crowd fell quiet again. His voice echoed around the big top. THIS EVENING WE WILL SHOW YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE. YOU WILL WITNESS YOUR VERY DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES ON THIS STAGE.

When the other performers entered from behindcurtains, there was a clear hierarchy in their costumes. The majority of the so-called ‘Ravens’ wore plain black, slim fitting clothes with loose sleeves to resemble their namesake. There were a handful of those Ravens where their black sleeves would unfurl to reveal wings of red, and the choreography of their movements along the deck had those accents of colour flicker in and out of the sea of darkness.

Riko was wearing the same black that his crew were, but the fabric of his suit seemed richer and thicker than the usual cotton. The only red on his costume was found on the inside of his long coat, which shimmered with every movement.

Renee watched the show with only half her attention. She kept searching the crowd for threats and for movement in the wings. She held onto the memory of Neil and tried to look out for a hint of sepia amongst black. Acts came and went, and the islanders from the other side of the stage dropped shining pieces of metal and quartz into the brass buckets the Ravens in the stands held. None of the Ravens breached the damplings’ stand; either they were considered too poor to have anything worth taking, or too lowly to ask.

Kevin had told her what he knew of the Ravens’ routines, what their performance structures looked like no matter the act. She felt confident then, when the crowd’s cheers reached a crescendo. She knew that another dangerous feat would grasp their attention in a matter of moments. She had a small window of opportunity, and she took it. She slipped away—not through the door she’d entered by, but through the back.

This passageway was almost identical to the ones she had come in through. The walls of the ship were painted black and so were the corrugated floors. The only source of light along the seemingly endless hallways were coming from the stained glass tubes of crystal jellyfish, and it gleamed against every surface. All metal was salvaged, both on land and on the sea, but the metal of the _Evermore_ looked brand new. It must have been hammered and sandpapered and polished repeatedly until it gleamed. Anywhere else it might have looked inviting and bright, but here it seemed like the walls were sucking the air out of the entire ship. Renee wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but she couldn’t imagine the same for a Raven. What the _Evermore_ offered her crew in wages must have been good enough to make it seem worthwhile.

Kevin’s instructions led her quickly down twenty-six steps to the hold of the _Evermore._ She went to the forecastle first, which split into two quarters for the crew: Red Hall, and Black Hall. She found both empty. The stores were empty too, though Renee heard voices coming from the gundeck. None of them sounded familiar, however, so she didn’t go inside. She would go back to it, of course, if Neil didn’t show up anywhere else, but she didn’t want to get caught before she had the chance to search the ship to its entirety.

Every door she checked was locked, and she was running out of ideas of where else to look. The more she saw of the ship, the harder it was to suppress the urge to find Neil with a dangerous shortcut. Still, she suppressed and suppressed. There were too many innocents onboard, and they didn’t deserve to die at her hands.

Through it all, she heard the shrieks and cheers and gasps of the audience. Hearing their wordless voices was a reassurance that she wasn’t trapped in some endless cycle of locked doors and endless corridors. It was almost a comfort, but it didn’t drown out the sound of a door ahead of her unlocking.

With nowhere to hide, Renee pushed up the hem of her trousers and slipped out the knife she kept strapped to her calf. The door opened, making the last of the applause blare into the passageway, and Renee’s grip loosened when she saw who came out of the door.

Renee didn’t think Neil looked good in black, in the poor lighting of the _Evermore,_ or in bandages. She remembered him at her graceyard, when his skin was warm brown and his hair a vivid russet. Both seemed faded now. It was like he had been left out in the water for days on end until his colouring faded. She wondered how long it would have taken for him to turn grey, a shadow of who he used to be.

But then Neil’s eyes snapped to hers and every muscle tensed for a fight. Neil might not have looked as alive as he had been on the _Foxhole,_ but he was by no means done fighting. Relief was a writhing thing in her chest, but she smothered it down. She hadn’t got him out yet. She hadn’t returned him home.

“I don’t know if you remember me, Neil,” Renee started.

“You’re the gracekeeper,” Neil said. “Why are you here?”

Allison had told Renee that Neil was blunt, and seeing it in person almost made her smile. “I’m here with the Foxes. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Renee wasn’t sure whether Neil’s hesitation was the time taken for her words to register, or because he didn’t believe her. When he frowned, looking at her with a wary gaze, Renee knew which side he fell on.

“What do you get out of that?” he asked.

Since boarding the _Foxhole,_ Renee had learned that there were two kinds of Foxes: those whose life had dealt a bad hand but could come back from it, and those who had learned to live with the worst aspects that their lives had to offer. There was no coming back from adaptation. They could heal, for there had to be hope, but they would always be scarred. Most of the Foxes fell into the former category, but she knew that Andrew and herself were part of the latter. Looking at Neil now and meeting him for a second time, she knew that Neil had lived with the shadows for so long that they had become a second skin. She wondered if that was what had drawn Andrew to Neil.

It made her think about Allison. Allison spoke of only a vague outline of her past, but she knew that the environment Allison had grown up with had built her a skin of steel. Renee could tell her the horrors of her past, and Allison would nod and move on.

“An opportunity to do good,” Renee said eventually. Neil’s blank look told her that he didn’t believe her. She smiled encouragingly. “You know that gracekeepers take up the role as a way to repent past crimes. Mine was a new chance at life. I had a lot of outside interventions that led me onto a better path than the one I was raised on. I like to think that if I do good deeds, I will somehow repay that kindness.”

“And kindness repays you with that?” Neil asked, gesturing to his face.It took Renee a second to realise he meant the bruise on her cheekbone. Once the Foxes had agreed that Renee would board the _Evermore_ alone, Allison had taken her into their coracle to apply a layer of powder over her bruise so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. It had worked until now, but Renee supposed that Neil was used to focusing on the finer details.

“That,” Renee said, resisting the urge to touch her face, “was Andrew.”

Neil’s reaction surprised her. He tensed again, though now she could tell the difference between the urge to flee and the urge to fight. Now, Neil looked like he was a second away from trying to land a second bruise.

“Andrew and I are sparring partners,” she told him. “He, like you, didn’t buy into this front. He wanted the truth, so I told him.”

She waited for Neil to ask about her past. She wasn’t proud of the things she had done and the person she used to be, but she couldn’t heal if she kept hiding it. Instead he guessed, “And he wanted to see if he could beat you in a fight.” When Renee nodded, he asked, “Who won?”

“I did.”

She was surprised when Neil smiled at that. A tiny thing, more a quirk of the lips than those most of the Foxes bore. It seemed more hardwon, and for that Renee felt proud at being the cause of it.“He won’t have liked that,” Neil said wryly.

“No, I suppose he didn’t. But he agreed to spar with me again, and for that I am grateful.”

Another roar of cheers erupted from the stage above them, and Neil turned to look over his shoulder, back toward the door he had come from. Renee knew that they didn’t have much time left. She wasn’t sure if Neil trusted her yet, but she had to try.

“Neil, we don’t have much time. We have to go before they notice you’re missing.”

Neil shook his head. “They’ll notice I’m missing any minute now. I’m in the next act.”

Renee blinked. “You’re performing with them?”

Neil absentmindedly tugged at his clothing, which Renee now realised was not spare clothes that the Ravens had given him, but a costume. A uniform.

“I was meant to become a Raven when I was ten years old. I’ve been living on borrowed time.”

“Then you can borrow a little more.” Renee reached out to grasp his wrist and tug him along, but then the door opened behind Neil and another black-clad figure stepped out into the corridor.

Up close, Riko Moriyama was shorter than Renee expected. They were around the same height, give or take an inch. Eight years had sharpened his features a little, and his black eyes were considerably colder. Any chance of remorse for what he had done to Kevin as a child had burnt out in a fire of ice.

Renee’s chances of getting off the _Evermore_ with Neil in tow were lessening by the second. It was impossible to do anything now, so all she could do was make sure another opportunity arose.

She sent a silent apology to Andrew and one to Neil in her expression. Instead of reaching for Neil’s wrist as planned, she aimed higher and clasped a hand around his bicep. He was tense, more so under her touch, but he let her do it and let her step closer.

“You’re all so talented,” she said in a hushed voice, though still loud enough for Riko to hear without it seeming intentional. “I can’t wait to see you on stage. Will you find me after the show?”

In the corner of her eye, she saw Riko lean against the wall. He looked at Neil for a hard second, but summarily dismissed him in favour of Renee.

“I’m sure that if Neil wants to find you, he will,” he said. “But right now we have a show to finish. If you head back to the stands you’ll be able to see the horses. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Renee couldn’t force herself to blush, but she let go of Neil’s arm and made her expression mimic bashfulness as she smiled. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Moriyama.”

Riko nodded, as if she were another check on his to-do list. Another problem now solved. He turned to Neil. “Nathaniel, get back to the dressing room. We have guests to tend to.”

Riko left without waiting for Neil, certain that his order would be followed. Renee looked at Neil. “After the show,” she whispered.

“Wait.”

Renee paused, waiting for Neil to continue. He seemed to be struggling with something, so she prompted, “What is it?”

“Riko he— Riko might have a message in his cabin. A letter to North-West 8’s island council. He was going to tell them that they had the wrong man: that it was Aaron who should have been arrested, not Andrew. Riko said he wouldn’t send it if I joined the Ravens. I don’t think that promise will hold if I leave.”

Renee nodded. “I’ll look for it. Now go, before Riko starts to suspect something.”


	14. thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: involves a circus act centring on police brutality, and references to Andrew's past sexual abuse

**suzaku** \ ˈsü-ˌza-ˌkō \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing south

 **W** hen Neil returned to the dressing room, the Ravens were all dressed in their costumes for the second act and caking on makeup in preparation for the stage lights. They all looked up when Neil stepped in, and their expressions ranged from cold disinterest to open hostility. Neil hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome though, so he made his way to his station and ignored how their stares followed every step. He didn’t care. They wouldn’t disobey Riko; they would only sneer at Neil when he fell and stumbled and slipped. The Ravens’ practices ran for hours, and even when Neil had first boarded the _Evermore,_ well rested and well fed, he had been in no shape for the brutality of Raven drills.

Ever since Neil joined the _Foxhole Circus,_ Neil’s act was on the stage deck, dancing with his fox. Before that, in the time of his life that he didn’t like to think about, Neil and his fox ran from island to island, boat to boat, never slowing, never stopping. Running was in their blood. To perform on the _Evermore_ now contradicted everything his mother had ever taught him. Eight years he had been running from the _Evermore,_ running from his father who had sold him to them. Neil was meant to become one of the Perfect Court, a group of trapeze artists led by Riko Moriyama and seconded by Kevin Day. Neil had found Kevin again, but he hadn’t seen the Perfect Court’s third member, Jean Moreau, since Jean had helped him escape the _Evermore_ all those years ago. Neil didn’t know what Jean would say or do if he knew where Neil was now, but he wasn’t even sure if Jean would remember him. Neil had only been ten years old, Jean twelve. After Riko had dropped Kevin during a performance, Jean had pulled Neil from the stage and dragged him behindcurtains. Mary hadn’t hesitated before hauling Neil into her arms and running off the _Evermore_ and onto the blackshore. Neil hadn’t even had the chance to ask Jean to come with them. He supposed it didn’t matter now; Neil had been on the _Evermore_ for twenty-two days now and he hadn’t seen Jean or heard any of the Ravens utter his name.

Despite nearly nine years away from the trapeze bars, Riko expected Neil to perform in their drills like Neil had been training with them for years. Neil failed spectacularly. Every time he reached for the bars his hands—bruised and cut and numb—would slip on the bars and he would fall again and again. He hadn’t broken a bone yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The gracekeeper had good timing if she expected to get Neil out that night. Riko had been acting as captain and ringmaster since the _Brethren Banquet_ because Tetsuji had boarded a different boat heading in a different direction: to North-East 10, the home island of the Moriyamas. Riko’s father and Tetsuji’s brother, Kengo Moriyama, had died and only Tetsuji had been invited to the funeral. Riko had been furious, and his anger hadn’t yet shown signs of fading. Neil would be glad for it, except Riko’s way of letting off steam was going to get them all arrested.

_Our second act. The military march,_ Riko had told them. _The clams will love it._

Neil wasn’t so sure. The Foxes had done it before, and they had spent time on a prison boat for it. Wymack hadn’t asked them to do it again, and refused when Seth had all but begged for another chance.

Riko held no such sentimentality for his crew. The rest of the Ravens knew it, and didn’t care. This was how their crew worked, and they accepted it unquestioningly. Their years on the _Evermore_ might be a vicious nightmare, but it granted them fame among damplings and landlockers alike, as well as earning large enough to buy a house on land once they retired from the sea. They’d be set for the rest of their lives. As far as the Ravens were concerned, it was a worthwhile trade.

Neil couldn’t imagine how they could still regard him as a leader. Kevin had been the more talented of the pair, and Riko’s jealous streak was near-murderous. The majority of the Ravens wouldn’t care enough to speak out—the promise of a life on land was too enticing—but there was no line that Riko wouldn’t cross to protect his throne.

_It’s not just your past that I’ve been looking into,_ Riko had said at the _Brethren Banquet_ once he’d got Neil alone. _I’m referring to that knife thrower. The miniature one with the disgusting attitude who thinks he can take my things. You know the one I mean, I’m sure. Strange taste. I don’t think I’d want sloppy seconds, especially after hearing that it was his own brother that fucked him brainless._

Neil almost hadn’t been able to stomach the reminder of Andrew’s traumatic past. _Don’t._

Riko had ignored him. _It was an interesting story. I suppose I should thank Kevin for telling me about him. You see, it’s not so often you hear about a gracekeeper with his particular skill set. But Kevin insisted we pay the graceyards a visit and offer him a chance on the Evermore._

_And Andrew told you no,_ Neil had reminded him. _He saw straight through the glamour and saw what a second-rate piece of shit you are._

In front of the mirror of the Ravens’ dressing quarters, Neil swathed on dark paint over the fading bruise Riko had left after that insult. It had been only a twinge of pain compared to what Riko’s following words had left behind.

_He told me no then, but do you think he would refuse again when I offer him the chance to spare his brother from justice?_ Riko had smiled cruelly at Neil’s confusion. _Oh? Didn’t you know? It wasn’t Andrew who had killed Drake. It was Aaron. Andrew had taken the fall, of course, and I think he’ll do it again. Did you know, Nathaniel? North-West island councils are so cheap to buy off._

_What did you do?_

_Nothing yet, but I am very keen to tell the truth. That they had the wrong man arrested. I think they will be very receptive to correct their mistake. So much so that I think they would fall for the same trick again. Do you think your precious knife thrower would stand by while his brother gets arrested?_

Neil had opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked away. He knew that Andrew would never let Aaron get caught by the military. As soon as he realised what was going on, Andrew would pretend to be Aaron again and let himself get killed. Neil couldn’t imagine that the military would let Andrew become a gracekeeper again. It was too risky. They would kill him, and Neil couldn’t do anything about it.

_But, of course. I haven’t told them yet. Whether I do so will depend entirely on your actions from now._

Neil had only stared back at him, refusing to take the bait. He had known that Riko would gloat about his plans regardless of Neil’s input.

Riko had smiled again, and Neil had wanted to carve it from his face. _Unless you want to see your boyfriend killed, you will board the Evermore tonight. Do you understand?_

Neil had punched him, but Wymack and the other Foxes had quickly broken up the fight and the Foxes had left for their own boat shortly after. Neil had stuck close to Andrew’s side, and though he had been certain that Andrew picked up on his strange behaviour, Andrew hadn’t asked. Neil knew now that Andrew had probably planned to bide his time, to ask in the morning, but when morning came, Neil had gone. All he had left Andrew with was his fox and a jar of vetiver roots to keep her settled when Andrew couldn’t calm her down.

Neil hadn’t known how long he would have to stay on the _Evermore._ He had been prepared to stay with the Ravens forever if it meant protecting Andrew. He was still prepared to do that, only he hadn’t counted on a runaway gracekeeper coming to break him out. He believed her story, but he couldn’t find it within himself to take her entirely at face value. She had an edge to her polite smile and conservative clothes, and it was an edge that Neil couldn’t trust. But she knew Andrew, and Neil knew that Andrew would stop at nothing to get Neil off the _Evermore._ Even if it was just to tear Neil apart for running despite the promise between them, Andrew would do everything in his power to get Neil back. He wasn’t the sort to leave things unfinished. Neil knew that, believed that, with every fibre of his being.

It was enough to soothe the anxiety he had for the Ravens’ performance that night. If Andrew had trusted Renee enough to let her go in his stead, then Neil had to trust Renee enough to get him out.

He exhaled as he examined his reflection. He almost looked like every other Raven. Monstrous, with outlines of teeth painted onto their faces to make it look as if the flesh of their cheeks had been cut away. The only difference in their costume was that Neil had stamped on the image of Suzaku onto his cheek. It wasn’t a permanent tattoo yet, but Neil knew it was only a matter of time. Even in its impermanent state it was horrifying to look at. It branded him as one of Riko’s ‘Perfect Court’. He knew that this reflection would haunt his nightmares for a long time to come, but that wasn’t anything new.

Someone shoved at Neil’s shoulder and Neil startled.

“Ready?” hissed Reacher.

From the station beside Neil’s, Engle asked, “Now?”

Reacher turned to her. “You dreaming? Get ready. We’re on in five.”

Engle looked down at her hands for a second. Neil followed her gaze and found that they were trembling. She clenched her fingers together into a fist, and then finished her makeup. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the military act tonight,” she said.

“You planning on telling Riko that?” Reacher said with a harsh laugh. “Riko said that we had to. Without his trapeze act we have to shock the clams. Otherwise we might as well be Foxes.” Reacher laughed again with a pointed look at Neil. Neil ignored him. He couldn’t be a Fox no matter how much he tried.

“It’s just,” Engle said, “it seems risky. We saw a military boat just a few days ago, and the military has a stronger hold on the southern archipelagos.”

“Exactly,” Reacher said. “So they’ll hate them more.”

Engle didn’t argue, but Neil doubted that her fears had subsided. When she caught him looking, she snapped, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

Neil looked away without arguing. He had to choose his battles, and this wasn’t important. He had a family to return to.

**belaying pin** \ bi-ˈlā-ˌiŋ-ˈpin \ a short metal rod to which a ship’s rigging is secured, commonly used as an improvised weapon as they’re accessible and the right size and weight to be used as clubs

 **W** hile Neil and the other Ravens lurked in the shadows of the seawater-rough curtains, the orchestra filled the _Evermore_ with the music of the intermission. The stage was left empty and dark while the clams waited. There would be no announcement for the military act; Riko had a flare for dramatic surprises. It made Neil feel a pang of loss for Wymack and Dan’s old-fashioned style as ringmasters: booming commandments and enticements that echoed between the clams’ ears, a tent lit up bright as stars with dozens of seal-fat lamps lit with Seth’s firebreath.

They waited for their cue, and soon it came. Smoke started to creep across the stage as red light flooded the big top. The orchestra’s beautiful music squealed and squeaked harshly before setting into a military march, loud and aggressive. Behindcurtains, the Ravens stamped to the beat in their metal-soled boots until the black silk of the _Circus Evermore’_ s big top shuddered with the sound. When the clams’ excitement and fear was so thick that Neil could taste it, the Ravens marched onto the stage.

Their uniforms, makeup, and pretend guns were hidden by floor-length capes, the hoods pulled low over their faces. Through the hazy red glow they slinked across the stage, and the other Ravens hissed warnings in the faces of the closest clams. Neil didn’t. He wanted as little part in this act as he could. On the _Evermore,_ the circus was a dark place. When on stage, the performers couldn’t see the crowd, only their scent and sound told them that they hadn’t risen from their seats and left.

Once they stood in the centre of the _Evermore’_ s stage, Neil and the Ravens ripped off their cloaks and marched in place, their guns held up to their shoulders. Arms straight, chins held high to let the lights hit their painted skills, they marched to the beat of the Ravens’ song. They stamped harder as the song got louder. Neil felt the deck judder under his feet, and it felt like the whole ship would topple if they continued much longer.

Above them, spotlights followed the movements of the trapeze artists. The music changed and they swung from bar to bar. They would never rise as high as Riko did. They couldn’t outperform their self-appointed king.

The Ravens on the deck changed their movements, too. The march slowed and then froze. A spotlight was pin-pointed onto Jenkins, who was sitting in the crowd wearing identical uniform to the rest of the performers but it was hidden by a beige overcoat. One of the Ravens onstage—Reacher—aimed his pretend gun at Jenkins in the stands, and the spotlight vanished with a crash of symbols from the orchestra. Some of the landlockers screamed. On stage, the other Ravens circled around Reacher, forming a protective barrier. Engle jumped out of the ring and mimed yelling and screaming, a wailing violin to the thudding of the drums. Williams mimed to shoot her, too, and Engle fell to the ground, arms flailing and body twitching as she hit the deck.

This was the crowd’s cue. If the clams had been to a parody show before, they knew to bring projectiles with them: spoiled food, broken tools, handfuls of seaweed from the blackshore. In their rage and frustration they’d hurl these things at the performers, but in their minds they were throwing them at the military, the bankers, the government, and at anyone who let their evil go unpunished. The objects hit and the performers bled. The more they bled, the more the clams screamed and raged and threw. It was the sign of a good show. Scapegoats had to bleed.

Neil knew that the Ravens made perfect scapegoats, because they were terrifying in their uniformity. They stood for money and hunger, but more subconsciously—conscious to those who knew what life aboard the _Evermore_ was like—they stood for sex and rage, loss and loneliness, displacement and abandonment. They stood for everything, and they stood for nothing.

The Ravens dominated the stage: painted skeletons baiting a hundred people to attack them. Neil waited for the shock of impact, the thud of objects on flesh. But nothing came. When Neil squinted one eye open he saw that the clams had stayed in their seats with their mouths shut. Under the sluggish military march, Neil heard nothing. No shouts, no taunts, no scrape and rustle of objects ready to be thrown.

“ENOUGH!” came a shout from the crowd.

Neil almost felt a landslide of relief, but in the shadows of the landlocker stands he caught the gleam of buttons, the shine of what he hoped was a belaying pin and not a truncheon. The music stopped, and so did Neil’s heart. The Ravens stood on stage, frozen and staring into the breathing dark.

“You are under arrest. Landlockers, stay in your seats. Damplings, drop any weapons. If you are armed, you will suffer for it.”

“We don’t have any weapons!” Jenkins called into the darkness from behind Neil. “They’re fake! We’re just circus performers! We—”

One of the other Ravens must have shut him up, but it was too late. A dozen more shadows stood in the crowd. As they approached the stage, their military boots weren’t loud enough to shake the _Evermore’_ s big top like the Ravens’ had. Still, it was a problem Neil hadn’t anticipated. His mother would have smacked him for his shortsightedness. And where was Renee?

The Ravens straightened and put their hands in the air to stow that they weren’t armed. Neil did too, but he didn’t think there was much point to it. If a soldier wanted to beat them, bared palms weren't going to stop them.

“Present your captain,” one of the soldiers said. “Who is in charge here?”

From where he had been standing in the centre of a spotlight, Riko marched forward. His face was twisted in fury.

“What is the meaning of this? This is a performance. The _Circus Evermore_ has been travelling the world for years and this isn’t the first time an island has hosted a military show. Get off of my ship.”

Neil knew that Riko overestimated his own power, but he hadn’t realised quite how momunmentously stupid he was. Riko was a Moriyama by name and by blood, but being second branch meant he was as cut off from power as he was from his home island.

The soldier who had spoken—the captain, Neil presumed—nodded to two of her soldiers. They marched forward from their places and grasped Riko by the arms, holding his hands behind his back. Riko struggled, but the soldiers didn’t budge. They waited in position as the clams filed from their seats and back onto their island, mouths closed and eyes fixed on the ground. Neil tried to catch a glimpse of Renee but if she was with them she had faded in with the crowd.

When the stands were empty, the soldiers rounded up everyone from the _Circus Evermore_ who had performed that night, and marched them onto the prison boat.

**deadlights** \ ˈded-ˌlītz \ a metal shutter fitted to a porthole or cabin window to keep out light and water

 **T** he prison cells weren’t large enough to house the Ravens, but they had been crammed in all the same. They had been split into two groups—those who had been onstage and those who had been up on the trapeze bars—but it still didn’t grant them any space to move. Neil felt the crushing weight of claustrophobia and tried to focus on his breathing instead of the tightly packed bodies around him.

“Damn it, Jenkins, would you _move?”_ Reacher shifted, trying to force a finger-width of space between him and the wall.

“Move where, exactly?” Jenkins snapped. “The only way is out. If you want to try climbing out of that porthole, feel free.”

Neil knew that it was a useless suggestion. Even with the deadlights open, there was no way to unscrew the porthole window without any tools. Neil had worked that out within two minutes of being locked inside a cell with a group of circus performers who would hand Neil over to his father for the space Neil was taking up.

The last time Neil had been locked in a prison cabin was with the Foxes, and there had been enough room for Kevin to pace back and forth and rant at the soldiers guarding the cabins. They had ignored him, of course, but that had never stopped Kevin before.

“Riko will get us out soon,” Engle said.

Neil thought this was rather optimistic, and the others must have agreed as they didn’t respond. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, uncomfortably aware of one another’s breathing. Time stretched on until the light spilling from the porthole changed from moonlight blue to the orange of fallen leaves.

Jenkins had noticed too. “Are the landlockers celebrating that we got arrested?” He was the only one close enough to get a good view from the porthole, and was making good use of it. “It’s fireworks or something. Bright lights. Maybe that procession that they do, with the candles? The island is so dark, it’s hard to tell, but it looks like—”

Reacher tried to elbow Jenkins out of the way. “Don’t be stupid. The clams hate the military more than us. They won’t be celebrating. If anything they’ll be mourning the loss of our act.” He leaned over Jenkins and peered out of the porthole. “Wait. What is that?”

As the Ravens wriggled and shoved each other aside to get a look out of the porthole, Neil managed to get a glimpse for himself. A gleam of light against a dark sea. Neil hadn’t been the first into the prison cabin, but he had put every detail to memory. The island’s location was easy to remember, and the location of the boats around it. The glow came from the direction of the _Evermore._

“What is that?” Williams asked.

Neil couldn’t take his eyes away from the flicker of light. It wasn’t a seal-fat lamp or a clutch of candles. It was bigger than that, wilder.

It was fire. The _Evermore_ was on fire.


	15. fourteen

**tender** \ ˈten-dər \ a small boat towed or carried by a larger ship

 **R** enee’s boat bobbed with the tide of South-West 13, half hidden by the _Evermore’_ s neighbouring ship and the cover of stormy clouds blocking out the moonlight. The sea was her ally that night and the sky her friend.

She had been in the stands when the military made their appearance. She had heard the steady tromp of military boots even over the exaggerated thuds coming from the stage. She had frozen in her seat at the back of the stands, praying to the gods of the sea for the military to pass her by, for them to not recognise her. South-West 13 was the opposite side of the world from North-East 9, but she couldn’t be too careful. They hadn’t recognised her; they hadn’t even noticed her. She followed the crowds back out onto the blackshore. She didn’t follow them further inland, though. Instead she made her way back to the tender she had borrowed from the Foxes. It wasn’t much different from the rowing boat still docked at her lighthouse. It had another bench inside and it wasn’t as polished as Renee kept her boat. The mechanics were the same, though; two metal oars ready to pull her out to sea.

Her eyes strained in the dark, but still she waited. A few moments before her patience would have surely snapped, a line of people marched across to the prison boat. It took her a moment to realise that they were not simply more soldiers, but rather a handful of circus performers dressed like soldiers. Still, Renee waited. She knew that to act too soon would be a disaster and she needed the element of surprise. She couldn’t convince the military to do anything, and she had nothing to barter with. She could only wait for the opportune moment to break Neil out from under their noses.

She breathed in time with the push and pull of the water beneath her. She felt it ebb and flow and maneuver around obstacles like rocks, relics of the old world, the underside of the _Evermore._ Over time the rocks would be moved by the water, the relics would erode into nothingness, but the _Evermore_ would move on. It would sail away from South-West 13 and chase the _Foxhole_ across the world and back. Never stopping, never slowing, Riko would never let Kevin or Neil go.

She needed to do something. She had the opportunity to stop Riko once and for all, but could she kill a man and still claim to be trying to be better? Riko deserved it, she knew, but did she?

Renee felt ripples in the water. Not from the tides, not from the rocks or the relics or the _Evermore,_ but a steady shifting of water as something was pulled and pushed along with it. Another boat.

She looked up, and another boat identical to her own was being rowed toward her. Two bodies sat in it, but in the dark she couldn’t work out who they were. A cloud passed overhead, and the moon emerged, lighting the strangers’ faces.

Allison looked ethereal. The moonlight reflected off her dark skin, highlighting on the bridge of her nose and catching on the shimmer of glitter on her cheekbones. If Renee could bottle the moonlight she would; she was certain Allison would want to replicate this for one of her shows.

Andrew sat behind her, oars in hand as he pulled the boat closer to Renee’s. Renee noted that Andrew’s hair looked almost white in the moonlight, but her eyes kept flicking back to Allison. Allison had her own gravitational field, and Renee couldn’t help but be drawn in.

“What are you doing?” Renee whispered when they were within earshot. She held their boat steady while they climbed into Renee’s.

“You were taking too long,” Allison whispered back.

“Where is Neil?” Andrew asked before Renee could respond.

Renee finally looked away from Allison and turned to Andrew. “The military took the Ravens onto their prison boat. Neil is with them.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched minutely.

“Andrew,” Renee said insistently. “I have a plan. He’s going to be fine.”

The words didn’t seem to reassure Andrew. Andrew’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the side of the boat tighter.

“What’s your plan?” he asked through gritted teeth, and so Renee told him.

**spyglass** \ ˈspī-ˌglas \ a small telescope

 **R** enee didn’t think she would ever be able to forget the eerie silence of an empty circus boat. The _Evermore_ felt haunted, with its dark walls and floors and red bioluminescence. It had been an uncomfortable space to be in when she had worried about getting caught, but now that she, Allison, and Andrew were the only three people aboard it felt all the more sinister.

Andrew led the way to the captain’s quarters, though Renee remembered Kevin’s directions just as well. She preferred to take up the rear and keep Allison between Andrew and herself. Allison could hold her own in a fight, but Renee liked the sense of security she felt knowing that Allison wouldn’t need to test it.

Riko’s cabin door looked identical from the rest, but it was the centre in a row of five doors at the end of the corridor as per Kevin’s instruction. Renee tried the handle but found it locked. Before she could look around for something to unpick the lock, Andrew stepped forward and kicked the space just above the handle, hard. It burst open with a shudder.

The room was as dark and shiny and thoroughly scrubbed as the rest of the ship. A deep shelf ran at head height all around the edge of the room, with objects placed on it at regular intervals. Renee tried to take it all in at once: the gleaming gold orbs, the tiny glass vials, the stacks of silver coins, the candlesticks studded with red and purple gemstones. She reminded herself to breathe. A haul like this would have fed the Bloodsharks for years, and yet Riko kept it all locked away for only himself to admire.

Allison stepped up beside her and picked up a gleaming spyglass. “Some nice shiny stuff Riko’s got here,” she said. “It would be a shame if we liberated them.”

Renee bit down on a smile, but then remembered what Neil had asked her to find. “Riko might have a letter in here addressed to the island council of North-West 8.”

Andrew looked up from where he had been examining a journal filled with scribbled writing and sketches. He closed it shut with a slap. “Why?”

Renee kept her gaze steady. “Because he threatened Neil with sending the military after Aaron. Neil knew that you would protect him no matter the cost, so Neil did what he thought was best to protect the both of you.”

Renee startled when Allison snorted at that. “Neil wouldn’t care if Aaron lived or died. What he did was definitely to protect the Monster.”

Renee clicked her tongue at the nickname. “Allison.”

“What?” Allison asked, though she sounded like she knew exactly what Renee was chiding her for.

Andrew didn’t seem remotely affected by the nickname. “What Neil did was stupid. He should know better than playing the martyr.”

While they searched for Riko’s message, Renee thought about Andrew’s words. Did he hate the idea of Neil trying to protect him, or would he take responsibility for the consequences of that protection? If Riko had hurt Neil, and Neil had only been within Riko’s reach because he had been trying to protect Andrew, then Andrew would feel at fault. It was a terrible situation to be in, and Renee knew that she would do exactly as Neil had done to keep Allison safe if it came down to it.

“Anything?” Allison asked as she pushed the final drawer in Riko’s desk closed.

Renee shook her head. “It’s not here.”

“Or he’s already sent it,” Andrew said. Renee and Allison both turned to him, and Andrew gave them a withering look. “Since when has Riko kept his word?”

Renee nodded sagely. “If Riko lied, he would have Neil in his grasp as well as getting Andrew out of the picture.”

They didn’t need to say how that would make getting to Kevin considerably easier; the truth settled between the three of them like a layer of dust.

“Well fuck that,” Allison said, and then pulled open one of the desk drawers that she had already checked. Renee was about to tell her that there was no point, that the message didn’t exist, but then Allison pulled out an unmarked piece of paper— _paper!_ —from the drawer and took out a quill from the pot atop Riko’s desk. She unfastened the twine around one of the rolls of fabric, one Renee had checked earlier, and Tetsuji’s latest correspondence with his nephew unfurled before them. Renee watched Allison’s eyebrows furrow slightly as she examined the fabric, and when Allison dipped the quill into a small pot of squid ink, Renee realised that it hadn’t been the contents of the message she had been examining. It was Tetsuji’s handwriting. Allison hovered the quill over the paper, and started to write.

While the ink dried, Andrew pulled off the canvas cover from Riko’s couch. They folded it into a sack of sorts, and used it to carry all the valuable goods from the shelves.

Two doors down from Riko’s quarters, they found the aviary. They weren’t a common occurrence, as they were expensive and only knew how to fly to one particular island. But for a circus boat with no routine visits from a messenger boat, Renee supposed that they were a worthy investment. Along the walls were small cages containing messenger birds, each labelled with their homing islands. Each island had two birds, though North-West 8 only had one. The second cage was empty.

“Riko already sent the message,” Renee said.

Allison stepped forward to the other bird, and opened the cage door just enough to slot her message into the tin tube fastened to the bird’s leg. Underneath a reassurance that Riko’s assessment of the Minyards’ crimes on North-West 8 had been incorrect, that the correct man had been arrested, Allison had signed Tetsuji’s name. Riko thought himself a god among mere mortals, but in the eyes of an island council, he was simply a dampling. They would take Tetsuji’s word over Riko’s because it required the least effort. It meant they had been right. People with power tended to prefer the image of being right than the actual truth of it.

Allison carried the bird to the other side of the room and opened the porthole. The bird flew out of her arms, and Renee hoped that a messenger bird was as trustworthy as a grace. On their way out, Renee paused in the doorway. Allison turned to see what the hold up was, and Renee didn’t wait a moment longer. She ducked back into the avery and unlatched every cage. The messenger birds were better fed and watered than her graces had been, and they all flew out of their cages and out of the porthole with a flutter of feathers. Allison was smiling at her when she turned back to the door.

Walking down the corridor back to the rowing boat, Renee stopped at one of the doors. She remembered that this was the one Neil had stepped out of earlier that night. She turned to find Allison and Andrew watching her. Renee looked back at the door, and tried the handle. It was unlocked.

The door led to the Ravens’ dressing quarters, with two deep shelves lining both walls and becoming tables. Renee caught her reflections in each of the mirrors, and when Allison stepped up beside her she saw the two of them in a kaleidoscope.

When Andrew walked in, he headed straight for the rail of costumes. Allison’s gaze followed him, and when her eyes landed on the sequins, furs, and silks, they widened. Renee smiled at her excitement. She didn’t think she would ever feel the same joy Allison did when she thought about clothes, but she wanted to be a part of it nonetheless.

Allison pulled out a pink coat made almost entirely of thin feathers. Every movement sent ripples across its surface. From a few feet away it looked like the fur of an animal, which was a luxury Renee didn’t think anyone could afford. She had no idea how the Ravens got a hold of it.

“It’s so _soft,”_ Allison mumbled, her words lost in the feathers as she brought the coat up to her face.

Renee bit down a laugh. “So take it.”

“Of course I’m taking it,” Allison said. “But it’s so _soft.”_ She pulled her face away and held it out at arm’s length for assessment, her lips pursed. Renee stepped forward and clasped her hands on the shoulders of the coat. After a second, Allison let her take it, and Renee opened it up. Renee quirked her head to the side in encouragement, and Allison turned around obediently, and slowly pushed her hands into the sleeves. She flicked her braids over her shoulder, and spun around to face Renee once more. Renee remembered seeing the gracefeather around Allison’s neck for the first time, seeing how its green-blue colours had faded and its barbs were clumped and bent from repeated handling. Renee smiled and watched their reflections in the mirror behind them, and the reflections of their reflections. Endless repetitions of happiness. Renee couldn’t look away.

“How do I look?” Allison asked, and Renee wanted to laugh.

“You look as good as you know you look,” she answered, and Allison’s grin widened. Renee softened her voice a little and added, “You look radiant.”

Allison’s smile softened too, and the warm undertones of her skin brightened. Renee wanted to kiss every inch of that blush, but Andrew’s voice was an unfortunate distraction.

“If you’re done,” he said, “I found these.”

Renee looked to see what Andrew was holding and found that he had changed into one of the Ravens’ parodies of the military uniform. He held two more, and threw one at Renee and the other at Allison. Andrew must have already measured the costumes out for size because Allison’s was made with considerably longer trousers. Andrew ducked behind the costume rail to look for something—or, Renee figured, as a guise to give them more privacy to change. Renee turned around and didn’t look at the mirrors in front of her as she changed clothes.

“You can turn around now,” Allison said a short while later.

Renee did, and faced Allison in head-to-toe black, silver buttons gleaming. She looked incredible, but then, Allison always looked incredible. Renee still preferred the pink feathered coat, she decided, because it came with one of Allison’s best smiles.

Andrew stepped out from behind the rail with an armful of costumes, and dumped them unceremoniously into the canvas sack with the rest of their ‘liberated’ goods. Allison dropped the pink coat on top with a pleased expression. Renee took one side of the sack while Andrew took the other.

“Have you got everything?” Renee asked Allison.

Allison nodded and reached out for Renee’s free hand. “Everything I need.”

**scuppers** \ ˈskə-pər \ openings along the edges of a ship's deck that allow water on deck to drain back into the sea

 **R** enee rowed them out toward the prison boat, but paused in the shadow of one of the dampling boats.

“What are you doing?” Allison hissed, careful not to wake any of the damplings onboard.

Renee let the oars go lax. “I’m stopping the Ravens from ever chasing us again.”

She pulled off her gloves without watching for their reactions. In the darkness no one could see her tattoos, but that cover would soon burn away. Onlookers from the boats or the beach could curse her and damn her and throw her into the sea, and it wouldn’t matter at all, because that had always been where she would end up. Below her, waves sucked at the boat, hungry for her. She briefly wondered if Allison would pull her out, if it came to it, if she could.

She took a breath and held it, allowing herself to be terrified for a moment. There was no coming back from this. This wasn’t creating a glass bottle or feeding a grace. This was the very thing that her island council believed her capable of.

This was violence and destruction.

 _There isn’t anyone on board,_ she reminded herself silently. _You’re not hurting anyone. You’re saving someone._

She let her breath go, pushing out her fear with it. She could be scared later, but not now. She couldn’t let fear control her power, let it infect her will and take hold of her. She looked up at Allison and Andrew’s faces, and saw only acceptance. Over their shoulders she saw distant lights, but no immediate danger.

She tucked her gloves into the waistband of her trousers and leaned over the side of their boat to dip her hands into the water, half an inch from the surface. She felt the water respond to her touch, minor currents diverting to greet her. She closed her eyes and reached out, letting the water become an extended limb. With new sight she reached further and further away from the island, until she met the infection. Pools of black oil and junk spiralling from where the _Evermore_ and the other huge dampling boats had discarded them. Renee curled the water around those pools and pulled them back toward the shore in a lasso, tugging and tugging until Renee knew that if she opened her eyes, she would see that infestation before her.

“What is that?” Allison whispered, though Renee let her words pass by without response. She needed to concentrate, and Allison would find out soon enough.

She pushed and pulled the water still, twisting and turning the filth until it created a bridge between their rowing boat and the _Evermore._

“Andrew, may I have one of your matches?” she asked, slowly opening her eyes and blinking in the moonlight.

Andrew didn’t answer, but he dug into one of his pockets and pulled out the box. Renee took it with a nod of thanks, and slid out one of the matches.

“Get hold of the oars,” she said. “As soon as I drop this we need to get to the prison boat. Fast.”

The boat wasn’t flammable, as it was made of tin rather than the wood used in the larger ships, but they needed to remain unseen. Allison took hold of the oars, and nodded when she was ready. Renee lit the match and dropped it over the size of the boat. The trail of oil and junk and filth caught fire almost immediately. By the time Allison rowed them up to the side of the prison boat, the flames had already taken hold of the _Evermore._ They reflected off the dark sea, dazzling them all.

They left the sack of goods in their boat, though Allison snatched her spyglass from the top, and climbed up the jacob’s ladder. The deck seemed clear, but Allison used the spyglass to check the crow’s nest too. She nodded in confirmation that it was safe to go, but Renee didn’t know where to start. Kevin’s charts and instructions had been a godsend when navigating the _Evermore,_ but here they were doing so blind. They didn’t know the shift patterns of the soldiers, where they would be stationed, or even where the prisoners were kept.

That was, Renee didn’t think they knew anything, but she was swiftly corrected when Allison and Andrew took the lead and strode down the deck. They pushed open one of the doors, though to Renee it looked identical to the others. She followed them through anyway. They only passed one pair of soldiers, stationed at the door of what Renee presumed were the captain’s quarters. Alison and Andrew nodded at them in greeting, and Renee followed suit. The soldiers nodded back absentmindedly, paying more attention to their conversation. Renee tried to listen to what they were saying in case they mentioned their prisoners’ location, but they were only talking of news from their home islands.

Renee followed Allison and Andrew through the winding corridors, and tried to remember their path in case they got split up on their way back to the boat. They didn’t go through many doors thankfully, for Renee didn’t think their luck of finding unlocked doors would hold out for long.

Two floors down, they met a closed door with a soldier standing guard outside. Allison tried to nod at him as she had with the others, but he didn’t move aside.

“We have orders to escort one of the prisoners to a new holding cell,” she said.

“Whose orders?” the soldier asked.

Allison hesitated for a split second, so Renee answered for her. Allison and Andrew may have remembered their way on and off a prison boat from previous imprisonment, but Renee remembered the day the military escorted her to her graceyard like it was yesterday.

“Captain Lewis’.”

The soldier frowned. “Lewis isn’t an officer on this ship.”

“Of course,” Renee said. “As we’re not regular crew members on this ship either.” She gave the soldier a stern look. “Or do you not know your own crew well enough to recognise an intruder? I wouldn’t like to report a potential breach in security.”

She trailed off, but the soldier was quick to fill in the gaps. “No! Of course not. Please, right this way.”

He stepped aside and unlocked the door behind him. Renee didn’t move. “Keys,” she said with an impatient tone, and held her gloved hand out, palm up.”

The soldier rushed to unfasten his ring of keys from his belt and dropped them in her hand.

“Thank you,” Renee said with a beatific smile, and stepped into the cabin. She knew that Neil would recognise her, but the other Ravens—bar Riko—would not. She knew that if they saw Allison or Andrew first, their cover would be blown. They couldn’t risk it. She also couldn’t have Allison and Andrew waiting outside and arousing suspicion, so they followed her inside and she swiftly shut the door behind them.

“Finally,” someone said. “We’re so crammed in here I can’t even breathe.”

 _“You_ can’t breathe?” someone else asked derisively. “You were last in here! You’re near the front! I—”

“Where is Neil?” Andrew cut in sharply.

One of the Ravens strained their neck to see around the corner where Andrew and Allison were standing. “Wait. Isn’t that—”

Another voice cut them off. “Andrew?”

Andrew didn’t respond but pushed forward past Renee until he was standing in front of the steel bars of the prison cell. He stared at the Raven in front of him stonily. “Move.”

There was little room for the Raven to move, but the circus performers shuffled and twisted until a head of red hair pushed to the front. Neil looked terrible, somehow worse than he had earlier that night when Renee had seen him last. She couldn’t tell if it was the claustrophobia or the thought that Renee had failed. She wondered which she would rather it be before remembering that it was none of her business and swiftly shutting down that line of thought.

Renee had missed any words shared between Andrew and Neil, but the ferocious gazes the two set on each other still lingered. She didn’t want to cut short their reunion but she didn’t have a choice.

“You can do this later,” Allison said, her ear pressed to the cabin door to listen for other soldiers. “We need to go.”

“Right,” Renee agreed, and stepped toward the locked door.

There were only three keys on the ring thankfully, as the prison boat was only large enough for two cells. She poised the key in front of the lock, and then sent a stern gaze through the bars at the Ravens. She knew that they didn’t truly deserve to be locked away on behalf of whatever Riko had made them do; they needed help, not persecution.

“Do remember that secrecy is paramount,” she said. “We leave together, or we don’t leave at all.”

Though several of the faces staring back at her looked displeased, they all nodded or muttered their agreement. Renee unlocked the door, and they didn’t rush out all at once. They stepped out one by one until the gangway was filled with bodies.

“Hey!” a voice hissed, and it took Renee a moment to locate the voice as coming from further down the hallway, to one of the other cells. She made her way through the crowd of Ravens and found another cabin cell filled with identical black and red uniforms. Riko stood at the front.

“I remember you,” Riko said, tapping his chin with a finger absentmindedly. At first Renee thought he meant from eight years ago, when she had watched the _Evermore_ from the blackshore or from the stands during the show, but then Riko clarified: “You came to pay a visit to our dear Nathaniel.”

“My name is Neil,” Neil said, pushing himself through the crowd. Andrew followed him, but didn’t speak up.

Riko didn’t apologise, but he didn’t argue either. He knew that he needed their help to get off the prison boat.

“I could leave you here,” Renee said. “And I wouldn’t regret it. You hurt my friends, and I don’t mind paying that back tenfold.” Riko only stared back at her in icy silence. “But that would mean leaving the others here too,” Renee continued, nodding to the other Ravens. “I don’t think they deserve that, do you?”

“They deserve what they earn,” Riko said.

“And how is that measured?” Renee challenged. She exhaled. They didn’t have time for this, and she doubted a moment’s argument would change anything for Riko. She wasn’t going to waste her time, or the time she needed to save her friends. “I would recommend staying out of the way.”

She unlocked their cell door, and smiles twisted some of the Ravens’ faces when they realised Renee wasn’t going to leave them behind. They weren’t pleasant smiles though, they weren’t expressions of relief. They were cold, as if readying themselves to trample all over Renee and the others as a means of escape and retribution. They didn’t start immediately, though. They waited for Renee to step away from the doorway, and they spilled out into the gangway in single file. Renee didn’t buy their compliance for a second.

Andrew and Neil led the way back, and they peered out of the small window to look out for soldiers on the deck. Renee couldn’t see for herself, but she trusted their judgement. Allison stood beside her, a fierce expression on her face and a determined set to her shoulders. Renee reached out and brushed her knuckles against Allison’s. Allison startled a little, but when Renee moved her hand away, Allison reached back and entwined their fingers. Hands clasped, Allison squeezed and Renee squeezed back. Their communication was simple and silent, and an entire language grew between them.

Andrew turned around and met Renee’s gaze. “There aren’t any soldiers out on the deck, but there are two stationed in the crow’s nest. If they see you they will report it over the radio and you can’t run from the entire military.” This was directed at Neil, though Renee didn’t understand why. Andrew turned back to Renee. “They shouldn’t be looking down, but don’t draw attention.”

Renee nodded, and then Neil pushed the door open. The clouds overhead had broken, which explained why the deck was empty. Rain drummed on the deck, turning the smooth metal white as droplets bounced off the surface. No matter how much drained between the scuppers the collecting water seemed to double every passing second. Even from inside it was so noisy that Renee could barely think straight. The noise would provide cover for their footsteps, but she didn’t want to risk it. Andrew and Neil slipped out, and Renee watched them cross the deck. She held her breath. They reached the guardrail, climbed over, and then ducked out of view as they climbed down the side of the ship, down to their rowing boat.

Renee exhaled in relief and turned to the other Ravens. “We go in pairs. Wait until the pair in front of you have cleared the deck before stepping outside.”

“And how do we know that you won’t just go without us and leave us here?” one of the Ravens asked.

Allison gave him an unimpressed look. “Because otherwise we would have left you in the cells.”

“There’s a military tender on the other side of the deck,” Renee said. “It will carry all of you to shore.”

“So you are leaving us here,” the Raven said snidely.

“I will not risk my friends’ safety for a group of people who tried to kidnap my friend and hoard tradable goods while damplings starve.”

The Raven didn’t argue, ducking their chin down in submission. Renee eyed the others, but didn’t spot any sign of bubbling trouble.

She turned to Allison. “Ready?”

Allison flipped a few braids over her shoulder. “When am I not?”

Renee doubted her confidence was entirely genuine, but she smiled all the same. Allison opened the door, and they stepped out into the rain.

Renee concentrated on keeping her balance on the slippery surface of the deck as she led Allison toward the guardrail. Allison held her arms over her head like a shield in a fruitless effort to keep her hair dry, since four years on a circus boat had given Allison sealegs Renee couldn’t dream of after eight years in a graceyard.

They had almost cleared the deck when a noise came from behind. They turned and saw Riko striding across the deck, the Ravens flocked on either side like birds as they flew south. His pace was faster than the Foxes out of sheer arrogance, but unfortunately not fast enough to cause him to slip and fall.

The door behind them slammed shut, and Renee’s eyes darted to the crow’s nest. A second later and there was still no movement, likely not hearing the door slam over the rain, so she whispered her thanks to the sea gods for keeping them safe.

“That boy needs to get beat within an inch of his life at least once,” Renee said, only just loud enough to be heard over the rain.

“That can be arranged,” Allison said.

Renee smiled, a little cruelly, and almost smothered it down before she caught Allison staring at her. Her face had warmed again, though that could have been from the rain lashing down on all of them, but her hand twitched as if in an aborted motion to reach out. Renee would have let her—invited it, even—but now was not the time. Renee turned back to the threat at hand.

“I think that if you have a boat ready to go,” Riko said, “it’s only fair that the first ones on this ship are the first ones off.”

“Fair?” Allison echoed incredulously. “I think—”

“No one cares what you think,” Riko interrupted. “You are a little girl playing dress up, as insignificant as the rest of your pathetic little crew. The _Foxhole Circus_ belongs at the bottom of the ocean.” He paused for a moment, and then his mouth twisted into a sadistic smile. “Sometimes I even think a couple of you are aspiring toward it.”

Allison stepped forward while raising her hand to slap Riko across the face, but Renee managed to catch her shirt in her hand and haul her back in time. Allison didn’t try to pull herself out of Renee’s grip, but Renee held on just the same. She tried to imagine it as a kind of anchorage, a tether to reality. She couldn’t set the entire sea on Riko and his Ravens. She wouldn’t put Allison, Andrew, and Neil at risk.

“Apologise,” Renee said to Riko. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Riko looked surprised at such a request, though his surprise quickly morphed into condescension. “Don’t think I don’t know when the _Foxhole_ picks up another stray. Run back to your graceyard. I would never lower myself to seek your forgiveness.”

While the argument hadn’t drawn the attention of the soldiers yet, Renee didn’t know how long it would hold out. She didn’t know how much her energy would hold, either, but she doubted that she would collapse within the next ten minutes.

She slipped off her gloves, and ignored Allison when she hissed, “What are you doing?”

Now free, she could open her hands to the rain falling from above and relish in the moment water touched her skin. It felt icy and sharp. She could have remained like this, completely immovable, for hours, basking in that power. Instead she raised her hands higher until her arms were held above her head. Allison noticed before the others that it had stopped raining down on them and the deck around them, and yet the roar of rain thudding on the roof of the ship could still be heard a few yards away.

“How…” Allison started to ask, but drifted off. Renee supposed that Allison did know how Renee had created a bubble of stillness on the deck of that prison boat. Rain wouldn’t touch them, and sound wouldn’t leave. If those soldiers above them looked down, they would see only the same white haze of bouncing rainwater that graced the rest of the deck. There would be an odd perspective to it, but Renee didn’t expect them to pay close attention to it if they hadn’t noticed their presence already.

Riko had noticed the shield above them too, but instead of sharing Allison’s awe, his face twisted in revulsion. “You’re a sea witch.”

“I am,” Renee said simply. There was no point in denying it.

Riko laughed, and the sound grated on Renee’s ears. “Oh, the military are going to _love_ finding you. When they find out what you are you won’t see water for the rest of your abominable life.” He looked to Allison with something like victory in his expression. “You left your island and respectability for the sea, and yet you’ve found yourself with something that will bring you back where you belong anyway.”

Renee was glad that she still had a hold of Allison’s shirt, because Allison lunged for Riko again. “Renee is _not_ a _thing!”_ Allison protested, allowing Renee to anchor her too. “She is a human being and she will not be taken to land. The sea is her _home.”_

Riko smiled pityingly. “Its _home_ will be wherever I say it is. Do you really think I will let you go now that I know what it is?”

“I don’t think you can _let_ us do anything,” Allison said. “You can’t stop us.” She made to turn back to the guardrail, but Renee still faced the Ravens. She didn’t trust them at her back for a second, and she was right to. A moment later, Riko nodded to one of his crew members and a tall, muscular Raven lunged forward for Renee.

Renee dodged his attempted holds and swatted his flying fists away from her face. She had learnt to fight with the Bloodsharks, but sparring with Andrew had definitely refreshed her memory. More Ravens were directed into the fight, Riko the orchestrator of it all, but Renee ducked and weaved between them like it was nothing. She knew better than to brag, but she knew she was taking the whole group apart single-handedly. Allison was somewhere behind her, but Renee couldn’t hear any telltale noises of a fight. Either Allison was dodging blows as well as Renee was, or the Ravens were focusing all of their energy on Renee. The latter was most likely, as it was the smartest thing for them to do.

Renee dodged another badly aimed kick, but in doing so didn’t notice one of the other Ravens grabbing her from behind. The unexpected press of another body at her back as the Raven attempted to haul her aside felt like a cage tightening its walls with every second. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, and so she didn’t. The first trace of panic brought a splash of rain fall from above as the shield faltered.

“Renee!” Allison called from somewhere, and Renee focused on her voice to reel her back into the presence. She saw a flash of something gold and reached out for it before she could register what it was. Just as the Raven grabbed Renee’s left wrist, cold metal slapped her palm as she grabbed the spyglass with her right hand. The Raven hauled her around and he caught her high across her face with a meaty fist. Another splash of rain hit the deck by Renee’s feet.

Renee tightened her grip on the spyglass and slammed it into the bridge of the Ravens’ nose. She heard bones crackle under the impact, and the Raven let go of Renee to howl into his hands. Renee dropped the spyglass as a wave of exhaustion hit her, and she absentmindedly heard it rolling across the deck. She hoped that it wouldn’t fall into the sea.

She gathered her dwindling energy and surveyed the remaining Ravens. The majority were scattered within their bubble clasping wrists, lying unconscious, or otherwise tending to bruised egos. Riko stood among them all, his face reddened with rage.

“I won’t wait for you to get your crew onto a boat,” Renee told him. “I am leaving now, with my friends. Your crew are your responsibility. I won’t give you a third chance.”

“The military will find you,” Riko said, because he didn’t seem to understand the concept of letting things go. “I will tell them what you are.”

“You will tell them nothing,” Neil said, and Renee turned to see him leaning on the guardrail next to Andrew. Out of range, Renee realised that though they wouldn’t have heard the fighting, the delay would have been suspicious and the seemingly lack of escapees on the deck even more so.

Before Riko could respond, Neil continued, “You made sure that the military knew exactly who you were when they arrested you. You knew that your family has a habit of throwing money at problems, and so do the military. Did you really think that the main branch wouldn’t hear of your arrest? Your father is dead, and your brother is taking his place. The main branch cannot accept any weaknesses, especially _loud_ weaknesses. You were a loose end that quickly became a reckless inconvenience. How many favours do you think Tetsuji has left before Ichirou decides you’re a worthless piece of shit?”

Revulsion twisted Riko’s expression, and out of his military costume’s pocket he drew out a small pistol. Renee had only seen one other gun before: one owned by the leader of the Bloodsharks. They were incredibly hard to get a hold of, and Renee had no idea how Riko managed to get his hands on one, even with his family connections. She didn’t dwell on it, though. Just as Andrew hauled Neil around and slammed him against the guardrail, using his own body as a shield, Renee reached out for all of the water hovering above them. She dropped it all down between Riko and her friends, forming a barrier that hardened into ice. The rain kept lashing down from the clouds, and Renee built a cage of ice around Riko, thickening with every falling raindrop until no bullet could ever pierce through.

She felt her energy drain out of her with every passing second, and when she wiped her upper lip to brush away rainwater, her fingertips came back red with blood. She needed to get her friends off this ship within the next few minutes or her ice wall would crumble and her friends had to deal with Riko alone.

She turned, looking for Allison, and found Allison already standing beside her. Allison’s eyes widened when she saw the blood dripping from Renee’s nose, and she grabbed Renee’s wrist.

“Come on, we have to leave before you collapse,” she said.

Renee agreed, but she couldn’t find the energy to even nod. She felt unsteady on her feet, and let Allison pull her arm over her shoulder and help her walk back to the guardrail. Andrew was no longer wrapped around Neil like a shield, but was still standing protectively in front of him. When he saw Renee he pushed Neil’s shoulder toward the guardrail to urge him to climb down to the rowing boat, and then Andrew stepped forward to wrap Renee’s other arm over his shoulders. Together Allison and Andrew hauled Renee to the guardrail.

Renee couldn’t fight her eyes drooping closed, but opened them again when she felt someone tapping her cheek with insistent fingers.

“Hey,” Allison said, her face only inches from Renee’s. “Hey, stay with me, Renee.”

“‘m ‘ere,” Renee managed to mumble out, but regretted the attempt when another wave of exhaustion hit her. She heard fracturing ice from behind her, and knew the ice wall was breaking. The cover of rainfall was collapsing too, and it was only a matter of time before the soldiers discovered them.

“Come on,” Allison said. “I’m gonna carry you down to the boat, okay?”

Renee nodded once and then—

CRACK.

Ice splintered and fractured and broke. Projectile shards of ice came hurtling toward them, and Renee pulled in the last remnants of her energy to divert them away from her friends. She heard a yell of fury across the deck before it cut off when sound vanished. She couldn’t hear anything. She couldn’t feel Allison’s hands on her waist as she was hauled up over Allison’s shoulder. She couldn’t smell the salt water surrounding them or the scent of coconut that always seemed to follow Allison wherever she went. Renee’s eyes closed, and her vision went black.


	16. fifteen

**bilge rat** \ ˈbilj-ˈrat \ a rat living in the bilge of a ship, the lowest point of a ship’s inner hull; a common insult amongst damplings

 **T** he following days on the _Foxhole_ unfolded, slow and bright. Allison spent each of them in the forecastle, where Renee lay on the dining table under as many blankets as the Foxes could spare. Dan had brought in her mattress so Renee had something more comfortable to sleep on, but Allison wasn’t sure if Renee even noticed the difference. It wasn’t like she was awake to tell her so.

Renee hadn’t opened her eyes since they closed for the final time on the deck of the prison boat. She had exhausted herself on building that wall of ice, and now it seemed she was paying for it. Allison wished there was something she could do, somehow share that burden, but all she knew she could do was to stay by Renee’s side and keep her safe and comfortable. She hoped that it was enough.

They hadn’t crossed the equator yet, but Allison knew that Wymack wanted to trade the _Evermore’_ s haul for food and supplies before crossing to the North-East archipelago. She also knew that the Foxes were wondering how long Renee would stay with them. Abby had set up some strange concoction of nutrients in a glass jar, which fed Renee through a tube while she was asleep. Allison didn’t know how it worked and didn’t bother to ask; she trusted Abby to keep Renee healthy, and though she didn’t trust Aaron in the slightest, she doubted that he would actively try to harm his patient. He cared too much about his dreams to become a landlocker doctor.

Renee had been unconscious for two days, which Abby said wasn’t unusual. Allison would have laughed and asked what about Renee’s condition was ‘usual’, but instead she had only nodded and returned to her seat beside Renee’s impromptu bed. When Abby left the cabin, Allison continued to tell her stories of her childhood. It wasn’t something Allison liked to reflect on often, but in such a quiet room it seemed safer somehow. Still, she hoped that Renee could hear her. She hoped that Renee might find comfort in Allison’s voice, to know that she was safe, that she was home.

So she talked about the processions to the largest silk cotton tree on North-West 7, of baking coco bread with her nanny and stuffing it with cheese, and stealing twigs from the floor of the copse to dip in flower dyes and draw in the sand.

Talking to Renee became as much a part of Allison’s routine as much as breathing was. Before, they had shared many companionable silences, but with Renee’s current inability to speak it didn’t feel the same. There were no shared glances or fleeting touches. All Allison had left was her words and the desperate hope that Renee could hear them.

Allison, for the fourth time that day, reached out and laid her hand next to Renee’s. She inched her fingers closer and closer until they brushed with Renee’s. The leather of Renee’s gloves was warm, but Renee didn’t reach back. When Andrew had rowed them from the prison boat to the _Foxhole_ Allison had found Renee’s gloves. She would have preferred Renee to be proud of her status as a sea witch, but she knew it wasn’t her choice to make. She’d pulled the gloves over Renee’s unmoving hands until her tattoos were covered.

“So everyone’s currently betting on who will cry first at Nicky’s wedding,” Allison said. She continued so she didn’t sound like she was talking to an empty room. “Most people think it will be Nicky, which makes sense. He will cry. So will Abby.”

“And you?” said a small, croaky voice.

Even though Allison had been looking at Renee while she was talking, it still took her a moment to register the sound. Renee’s eyes were still closed, but her breathing had changed from the deep and steady breaths of sleep to a quickened pace. Allison’s heartbeat quickened with it. “Renee?”

“Who do you think will cry?” Renee asked, more clearly now.

Allison released a laugh or a sob of relief. She wasn’t sure which and she didn’t care; Renee was alive and awake and _okay._ “At this rate it’s going to be me,” she said, wiping away errant tears with her fingertips. She had _not_ given them permission to be there. The past few nights of sleeplessness were finally catching up with her and rendering her a simpering mess.

Renee reached up one hand, though the way she grasped onto Allison’s made it seem like the movement required a great deal of energy. Allison let her hold her hand for balance, and Renee used the shared strength to brush away another tear of relief with her thumb. Allison twisted Renee’s hand in her own and kissed the inside of her wrist. One of Renee’s tattoos peeked out from under the glove, and Allison felt its power under her lips.

“Do you have any names you want to put forward?” Allison asked softly. “We divvied up the Ravens’ shit but we could definitely win some back. Kevin’s new quadrant has caught my eye and I want to see his face when I take it off him.”

Renee huffed out a tired laugh and she closed her eyes. She brought their hands down to rest on Renee’s stomach, and Allison found the rhythm of her breathing a quiet comfort.

“It will be Matt,” Renee said. “He’s going to start feeling overwhelmingly happy, and then start to think about his and Dan’s wedding. When they finally get around to it, of course.”

Allison couldn’t help it. She started to laugh, and then she couldn’t stop. She’d missed Renee so much. It had only been two days and two days had been far too long. Renee watched her with something like awe. Allison had spent her entire life being looked at and admired, but she would have traded every single one of those glances just to have one from Renee. She had liked being looked at, but those small pleasures were miniscule in comparison to the butterflies thrashing around in her stomach, to the warmth in her face and the pit of her stomach, to the completeness she felt by having her hand in Renee’s.

Allison prodded Renee’s hip with her finger. “Move up.”

Renee huffed out another laugh and complied, shuffling across her make-shift bed to leave enough room for another body. Allison didn’t know how Renee wanted her, whether she expected Allison to lie down next to her or to lie on their sides and face each other like crescent moons, but Renee shuffled up a little and held up her arm. Allison inched closer and curled up against her side, putting her arm slowly across Renee’s waist and laying her face down over Renee’s heart. She heard it thumping underneath her cheek, echoing the heart of the sea cocooning them. Tentatively Allison lifted her leg over Renee’s knee and linked their legs together.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

She felt Renee’s jaw brush the top of her head as Renee nodded, and Allison closed her eyes and released the breath that she had been holding since Renee collapsed in Allison’s arms on the deck of the prison boat.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the steady rock of the sea lulled her into dreams. She expected herself to dream of the Ravens or of Renee collapsing with blood streaming from her nose. Instead she dreamed of the _Foxhole Circus,_ of being high up on her aerial silks. After completing a flawless scorpion, she looked over across the stage to see Renee on the other side, in the same position as Allison, high up on silks made of starlight and seafoam. Dan’s voice welcomed their audience, and Allison glanced down to see the clams of her home island beneath them in the stands. She recognised all of their faces, and their expressions of disappointment and disgust. Allison didn’t feel hurt over it anymore; she hadn’t in a long time. She had left her old life for one she wanted to live, and she would make the same choice again and again. She would always leave her island for the sea. The sea was her home. The _Foxhole Circus_ was her home. She looked over to Renee again, now performing an angel. She wanted Renee to be a part of that home.

 _Will you stay with me?_ Allison whispered, and in her dream Renee could hear her.

 _Of course,_ Renee replied. _I am a Fox._

Allison wanted to stay in this dream. She wished she could crawl inside forever and never wake.

But she did wake, and to wake in the warmth of Renee’s arms in the safety of the _Foxhole_ was an easy compromise. Renee wouldn’t stay forever, but Allison would revel in every second they had left.

“Good morning,” Renee said, murmuring the words into Allison’s hair. Allison wanted to capture them in silver and wrap them around her braids with the rest of her cuffs and charms.

“Is it morning?” Allison asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve not seen the sky since the prison boat.”

Allison nodded and buried herself further into Renee’s arms, soaking up as much of her warmth as she could before responsibilities came knocking at the door. Renee tentatively raised her hand to Allison’s shoulder and started tracing her fingertips across her back in soothing circles. Allison changed her mind: no dream could match her current reality.

“What happened?” Renee asked. “The last thing I remember is reaching the guardrail and then…” She trailed off and Allison looked up to see Renee’s face scrunched up in concentration. “There was a crack. What—”

“Your ice cage broke and you collapsed and Riko got out,” Allison finished. “I was still holding you upright so there wasn’t anything I could do, but in the end I didn’t need to.”

Renee hummed in acknowledgement, and Allison nestled down once more. “I never knew the Monster had such a flair for the dramatics. Neil said something to him, too quiet for me to hear over the rain, but it must have been an instruction or encouragement or something because the next thing I see is Andrew recreating his act: picking up one of the ice shards by his feet and throwing it at Riko. It got him right in the throat, the little bilge rat.”

Renee didn’t respond immediately. “Riko’s dead?”

Allison hummed in confirmation “Watched him bleed out onto the deck. It was beautiful.”

“And the other Ravens?”

“I saw them head to the other boat but we didn’t stay long enough to see if they escaped. I don't care if they didn’t. They nearly killed you.”

Renee’s hand stopped its movements on Allison’s back. “They did not.”

Allison reached behind her to tap at Renee’s hand, asking her to continue. “No they did not. You took them on single-handedly.” _And it was unbearably hot,_ she added silently.

Renee didn’t respond, but this time her silence seemed heavier, and uncomfortable weight settling above them. Allison leaned up again but Renee wouldn’t meet her gaze. Allison was not a patient person but she was willing to give Renee as much time as she needed to find the words.

When they came, Allison wished she had said something first.

“Do you think me a monster?”

Renee’s voice was quiet and restrained, fearful even, so Allison made sure her own was clear and true. “No. I think you are strong, and brave, and protective. You even helped the fucking _Ravens_ escape. Do you think a monster could do that?” Allison rested her hand over Renee’s heart, feeling it thumping out its rhythmic beat. “You are a good person with a good heart. And I think you’re incredible.”

Allison felt warmth pool in her stomach when she caught Renee’s eyes flicker down to Allison’s mouth and back again, as if chiding herself. She wanted to tell her that it was okay, that it was wanted, but she couldn’t find the words. Allison could compliment and flirt with ease when she didn’t care about the person who received them. She could snap and bite and cut people apart with her words when someone crossed a line. She could be brutally honest, and yet honesty didn’t seem enough in that moment. She didn’t know how to tell Renee how she felt, but she knew how to show it.

Allison leaned down, and a few braids slipped over her shoulder and landed on Renee’s pillow, creating a curtain between them and the rest of the world. That look of awe had returned on Renee’s expression, and Allison wanted to commit it to memory. She wanted to remember her widened eyes and parted lips, the way Renee’s heartbeat had quickened under Allison’s hand, the way she took an intake of breath just before their lips—

The door handle creaked and Allison startled back. The door swung open and Dan strode into the room like she had always done over the last two days, not bothering to look up from the journal in her hands.”

“Okay so Kevin thinks we’ll reach the North-West archipelago in—” Dan’s eyes widened comically. _“Renee!”_ She lunged forward and threw her arms around Renee’s shoulders. There was a muted ferocity in the fingers that bit into Renee’s arms. It wasn’t comfort, but something protective and defiant; it was the same hug Dan had given Neil when they returned to the _Foxhole_ two days ago. Dan had chosen Renee as one of her own; Renee was a Fox, and Dan was her quartermaster. When Dan opened her eyes she gave an apologetic look to Allison for the interruption. _Sorry,_ she mouthed, but didn’t wait for a response. She leaned back and braced her hands on Renee’s shoulders to get a good look at her. “How long have you been awake? How are you feeling? Do you feel weird anywhere?”

 _“Do you feel weird anywhere?”_ Allison repeated in a derisive tone.

Dan flipped her off without looking away from Renee. “I don’t know how magical injuries work. Do you?”

Allison didn’t answer but gave her a glare for good measure.

“It’s not quite an injury,” Renee said. “More like a depletion of resources. I just needed to rest, and that’s what you’ve let me do. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us until you’re on your feet again. Besides, we should be the ones thanking you. You got Neil out of the _Evermore_ and a prison boat. I mean, _How?”_ Renee opened her mouth to argue but Dan held out her finger to silence her. “Wait. Don’t say anything until everyone gets here. I have a feeling this will be a very good story.”

It didn’t take long for Dan to gather the rest of the Foxes. Gossip spread like wildfire in the _Foxhole Circus_ and news of Renee’s recovery was no exception. They were all eager to see her and find out exactly what had happened on the prison boat. Allison, Neil, and Andrew had all kept quiet for Renee’s sake; they didn’t know whether she wanted the others to know she was a sea witch. They trailed inside with bowls of fried seaweed and boiled rice as Nicky handed out drinks. Allison accepted her glass of rum and nudged it against Renee’s shoulder in offering.

“No, thank you,” Renee said, predictably, and Allison nestled the cup between her hands on her lap.

Eventually everyone took their share and settled around them, and Renee was the centre of attention once more. Allison felt proud to be sitting at her side. Renee looked at her, almost in reassurance, and then back to the Foxes.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything,” Nicky said unhelpfully.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Dan suggested.

So Renee told them how she snuck onto the _Evermore_ and found Neil during the intermission. She told them how she had left with the landlockers but took the _Foxhole’_ s tender out to wait while the military cleared the circus boat. Even though Allison had been present, she listened with rapt attention as Renee told them of sneaking back onto the _Evermore_ with Allison and Andrew.

“Why did you go back?” Seth interrupted. “You knew that Neil was on the prison boat.”

Renee turned to Andrew, who didn’t react. Allison knew that Andrew had told Aaron and Nicky that Aaron was safe from the military, but she had assumed Nicky had passed on the message to everyone else like he usually did. Evidently this had not been the case.

“Riko had blackmailed Neil,” Renee explained. “We made sure that it wouldn’t cause a problem again.”

Seth grinned at that, like she was implying they had killed Riko as a means to an end. It was technically true, though not in the way Seth obviously believed. Allison would have corrected him but she knew that in doing so would out Renee as a sea witch, so she held her tongue. It wasn’t a habit she had much practice with, but Renee started talking again and it was easy to focus on her voice.

Eventually they reached the part of the story where they were escaping the prison boat with the Ravens in tow. Renee paused, and looked down at her hands, gloved once more and folded in her lap. For once in their lives the Foxes were patient, and gave Renee the time she needed to gather her thoughts. Allison reached over and squeezed her hand in what she hoped would be comfort. Renee squeezed back, and then let go. She slid off her gloves, and Allison heard the collective intake of breath in the room.

“The soldiers would have seen us,” Renee said, still looking down at her hands. “So I made sure we were hidden and silent.”

She didn’t give any details, but the Foxes weren’t the type to shy from a good story.

“How?” Matt asked.

Renee looked up, probably surprised by the excitement in his voice. “What?” she asked, and Allison wanted to slap every single person who made Renee believe her gift was to be feared and hidden.

“You used magic, right?” Matt guessed, wiggling his fingers in what Allison suspected was supposed to be an imitation of power. If Matt did have an affinity for the sea, Allison doubted that wiggling his fingers would do anything other than making a fool of himself. She’d seen Renee harness the sea by clenching her fist in the water, as if holding the very energy itself in a tight grip. She didn’t know how Renee had created the roll of fabric that sent messages to its twin, but she assumed it was something with a little more… flare.

“Yeah,” Renee said. “I made a bubble over ourselves so the rain provided cover.” When she saw that she held her audience’s interest, she seemed to gather more confidence. Allison wondered if this was the first time she was truly able to talk about her power and felt safe enough to get excited over it without fear of persecution or judgement. “It’s harder to maintain since I am repelling water rather than bringing it closer, which fights back against every instinct within both myself and the sea. But it meant that the soldiers wouldn’t see or hear us.”

“Which we only needed because Riko wanted a little power trip,” Allison added, since Renee wouldn’t.

“And he got what he deserved because of it,” Renee finished. Allison felt a wave of pride for tempting a little brutality out of her.

Dan must have noticed the subtle change in Renee’s temperament too. She gave her an assessing look, likely staring past Renee’s easy smile and bruising face to the darkness in her gaze.

“You might be a little fucked up.”

“I did warn you,” Renee said.

Dan smiled at that, but the next question immensely dimmed the mood.

“How did he die?” Kevin asked, staring at the floor and clearly too uncomfortable to even say Riko’s name. Allison didn’t blame him.

Renee must have felt that _Andrew threw a knife at his throat_ was a little insensitive, because she started by telling him that Riko had drawn a pistol on Neil and that Renee had encased him in a cage of ice to stop him from hurting anyone. She turned to Allison and finished with, “I heard the ice break, and when I tried to divert the ice shards away from us I passed out. I didn’t wake up until earlier today.”

Even though Renee had turned to Allison to finish the story, Kevin looked to Andrew, which surprised no-one. Andrew just blinked at him. Neil was the only one truly proficient in understanding Andrew’s silences, and spoke up.

“Andrew killed Riko because Riko would have killed all of us. He aimed for the throat and he deserved a slower death.”

Allison wasn’t surprised at either Neil’s bloodthirstiness or lack of tact, and though Kevin flinched, he wasn’t going to leave the matter there.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he said to either Neil or Andrew or both of them. “Do you really think that the Moriyamas will let that go? They will kill you for this.”

“They won’t,” Neil said without any trace of doubt. “Riko was a loose end: dangerous on a good day and unforgivable when Ichirou is taking over. The Moriyamas can’t afford leaks in their empire when they’re shifting that much power around.”

“They won’t just let it go,” Kevin argued. “You killed one of their own.”

“We gave them a convenient ‘loss’ on a platter. We’re not in any danger for it, but if we were, my uncle would let me know.”

“Your uncle?” Renee echoed.

Neil nodded. “My mother’s family are from South-East 10. They have an… agreement, with the Moriyamas.”

“Don’t worry,” Nicky said with a failed attempt at cheer. “Andrew will protect you.”

Kevin sent him a horrified look. “These are the Moriyamas, Nicky. This isn’t Riko or the master; this isn’t Neil’s father. Andrew can’t—”

“I know. Just shut up,” Nicky said in an irritated tone that Allison didn’t understand; Nicky had been the one to say something stupid, so Kevin wasn’t to blame for calling him out on his blatant lie.

The silence that fell was uncomfortable and pressing, and Allison missed the weightlessness of her silences with Renee. She loved her family but in that moment she _really_ wanted them to fuck off and leave them alone. Seth must have seen something on her face because when she caught his eye he grinned, and mouthed something along the lines of, _only child syndrome_ at her. Allison flipped him off behind Renee’s back and his grin widened. Thankfully Renee didn’t notice because she didn’t want to explain feeling jealous over her friends for diverting Renee’s attention.

Dan noticed though, and Allison started to wonder when she had gotten so predictable. She flicked a look around the room and said, “Come one. Renee’s probably exhausted and we have an early start tomorrow if we’re to get to the graceyards before sunrise.”

The reminder that Renee was to return to her lighthouse was a painful jab in Allison’s chest.

“Wait, you’re going back?” Nicky asked as he climbed to his feet, as if surprised Renee hadn’t run away from her life for good.

Renee was slow to answer, and Allison was glad Dan had already started to kick the others out; if Allison were to be the one to demand they be alone she’d never hear the end of it.

“It’s my duty,” Renee said. “I have to go back.”

Nicky waved that off. “It can wait a little while longer, right?” His expression changed into something pathetic and pleading as he added, “Can’t you at least come to my wedding? We can drop you off on the way back.”

“Oh, I…” Renee looked around at the others, as if expecting some sort of complaints for her continuing company. Obviously there were none. “I would love to. Thank you, Nicky.”

Allison took back every negative thing she had ever said and thought about Nicky Hemmick. The man was a genius. She made a silent vow to let Nicky on her inside information for any future bets, and share any profits of her winnings.

Renee turned to look at her as the last of the Foxes left the cabin, finally leaving Allison and Renee alone once more. “Is that—” a yawn interrupted her, and Allison smiled at the way her nose scrunched up. Renee covered her mouth with her hand, but it did nothing to stop Allison from noticing. “Is that okay? If I stay a little longer?”

Allison pushed gently at Renee’s shoulders to get her to lie down once more. Her hands lingered a little, but she was quick to follow her down and rest her head atop Renee’s shoulder once more. “Yes, Renee. It’s okay. I want you to stay.”

Renee didn’t respond. Allison suspected that she had fallen asleep before Allison even had the chance to answer. Allison closed her eyes and repeated in a whisper, “I want you to stay.”

**ratline** \ ˈrat-lən \ transverse ropes attached to the shrouds of a ship so as to form the steps of a rope ladder

 **W** hen Renee woke again it was still dark in the forecastle of the _Foxhole._ Allison was fast asleep in her arms, and Renee didn’t want to move ever again. She felt valued. Trusted. She wanted to protect and care for Allison more than she ever had another person before. She was half-convinced that she was still asleep, but when she checked her hands she still felt the soft leather gloves. In dreams her hands were always bare. In dreams she slipped into the sea and felt it soothe her skin. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep again but then she heard what must have woken her.

The _Foxhole_ didn’t anchor overnight often. If they were too far from land, they split the crew into two shifts: one for the day, and one for the night. But in the doldrums the ship wasn’t sailing fast enough to warrant more than someone at the helm and someone up in the crow’s nest. The ship was quiet while the crew slept in their coracles, and there was no heavy footfall on the deck above to mask the sound of the sea surrounding them for miles and miles and miles.

Renee heard the sea’s call, and sleep would not come.

She wasn’t going to listen to it, either. She wasn’t going to jump off the side of the boat and live underwater for the rest of her life. But she couldn’t fight her instincts to their entirety.

Renee attempted to shuffle out of Allison’s grasp, but it didn’t take long to realise that Allison was a deep sleeper. Renee managed to lift Allison’s arm from around her waist and slide out from underneath her, and Allison only snuggled further into the warm space Renee’s body had left behind. Renee bit her lip for a moment’s hesitation before leaning forward and kissing Allison’s forehead. Allison didn’t wake, but Renee felt lighter than seafoam.

The feeling stayed with her as she made her way out onto the deck, but once she climbed down the jacob’s ladder to dip her toes into the sea, the water grounded her.

Renee had spent her entire life hiding from the sea, refusing to bow down to what she wanted and what she needed because it was what her mother and her island had taught her to do. But almost a month with a group of rag-tag damplings and runaways had let her realise who she was for the first time in her life. She was born a sea witch, and she couldn’t change that. She didn’t _want_ to change that. The sea was as much a part of her as anything else was. She had the same organs as everyone else but her heart beat with the tides and her lungs breathed in the ocean. She couldn’t imagine returning to the shallow husk of who she once forced herself to be.

As the _Foxhole_ crept further north-east, Renee could see the closest graceyard far in the distance. It wasn’t her own, but the lighthouses looked the same anyway. Gracekeepers weren’t allowed any personalisation, any identity outside of their role. Renee didn’t use to mind; she liked that her identity could be something with purpose, something helpful. But after spending so long with the Foxes and their colourful personalities, she found the concept of her old life… bland. It wasn’t hard to imagine why Andrew had chosen to leave his graceyard in favour of the _Foxhole Circus._

Renee closed her eyes and imagined her graceyard. She remembered the polished silver cages floating outside in a spiral around her lighthouse. She remembered the salt-crusted dress and silk flowers. She remembered the sporadic visits from Jean and the Resting parties and the solitude between. Her lighthouse was her home, and soon she had to return to it, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to her old life unchanged. She would know that there was always something more, something brighter, outside of her graceyard. She had seen life at sea and knew that being a gracekeeper would be like living with a missing limb. She could adapt and manage and live the rest of her life, but it would never be the same as it once was. She didn’t want it to be. She would write to Jean and tell him to leave his graceyard the next time the messenger boat stopped by. He would be happier away from the graceyards, especially if Jeremy were the one to show him the rest of the world.

Renee tensed as she heard footsteps overhead, but relaxed when she saw Allison’s head pop over the side of the bulwark.

“I hope you weren’t planning on ditching us,” Allison said. “You told Nicky you’d go to his wedding and I’ll never hear the end of it if you disappear.”

Renee smiled and pulled her feet out of the water, climbing back up to the deck. “No,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

The _yet_ went unsaid but it still left an uncomfortable weight in her stomach. She wondered that if she fell, whether it would make her fall all the harder. Would knowing that it had to end make it hurt worse?

“Good,” Allison said, and held out her hand to help Renee climb over the bulwark. “You can help me then.”

Allison didn’t give any further details or explanation, but Renee followed her toward the mainmast where a large tin box lay at the base. Allison flipped the lid open to reveal an expanse of white silk. She rummaged around until she found the ends, and passed them to Renee. The fabric felt cool in her hands, and sturdier than she had imagined.

“Hang onto these,” Allison said. “I need to clip it into the rigging.”

Renee waited as Allison unfurled the rest of her silks, finding the centre and looping it through a steel rigging plate in the shape of a revivalist angel. Once she’d tugged it tight, she looped the bulk of the silk over her shoulder so it wouldn’t drag along the deck. The Foxes had a near constant shift of someone to scrub at the deck but it never seemed to best the elements. Renee didn’t mind, though. The _Evermore’_ s polished deck never could hide the imperfections of its crew.

Allison reached back into her box and pulled out a glass spray bottle. She aimed it at her palm, squeezed the rubber bulb, and Renee smelt the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol and rosin. Allison rubbed her hands together, and made for the ratline.

She climbed with a grace that could have only come with years of practice, and clipped the rigging plate into a carabiner bolted to the yard. Renee felt the silk slipping from her hands as Allison tugged it around, and she let herself follow, coming to rest directly underneath Allison. Renee knew that Allison wouldn’t fall, but she wouldn’t mind catching her anyway.

Allison didn’t fall. She dangled her legs over the yard and lowered herself until she could wrap her leg around the silks, and climbed down until she was satisfied with her positioning above the deck. Renee could only step back so she could see better.

Allison shifted, one leg pointed like a compass needle, and the white silk fanned out around her body. It reminded Renee of her old gracekeeper dress. Allison would make a terrible gracekeeper, but she was an excellent performer. Perhaps what they did wasn’t so different after all. Allison floated above her with Renee as her only audience and the night sky her backdrop, and Renee imagined Allison’s fluid movements in her graceyard. The flourishes of her wrists and fingers after completing a position became the same flourishes while preparing a body for their Resting. The strength in Allison’s arms could mirror Renee’s, from years of rowing a small boat to and from the gracecages.

Once Renee started to imagine Allison as a gracekeeper, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her daydreams focused less on returning to her graceyard, and more on keeping Allison in her life. Her home was her heart, and Renee wanted to hollow it out and hang aerial silks from top to bottom. She wanted to make a space within the cavity of her lighthouse and crack open her ribs and build Allison a home.

Allison spun and spiralled around her silks, each position bringing her closer and closer down to Renee. She unhooked her foot and Allison’s toes touched the wooden deck. With the sea so still around them, it was quiet enough that Renee could hear both of their hearts beating, fast and hard. Above them the stars spread out in glinting layers.

“What did you think?” Allison asked quietly.

Breathtaking.

Radiant.

Effervescent.

Incredible.

Beautiful.

A thousand words raced through Renee’s mind but instead she asked, “Can I kiss you?”

If Allison was surprised, it only showed in a split second’s pause before she ducked her head and leaned in.

Allison’s lips were impossibly soft but insistent as she kissed Renee back with equal fervour. Around them the water was still and calm, as the doldrums always were. Without the waves or the currents or the wind Renee could focus her entire being on Allison’s hands on her shoulders and Allison’s lips against Renee’s own. The air was cool around them, but Renee wouldn’t warm it. She wouldn’t take a second’s attention away from Allison. She wanted to memorise every moment of this, from the firm press of Allison’s hands softening as she trailed her hands down Renee’s back to her waist, to the tickle of the gracefeather resting against Renee’s chest as Allison leaned down.

Renee had sent Allison that gracefeather in hope that Allison might remember their one night together, sharing tea and stories. She had hoped that Allison might write to her, but she had never expected to ever see her or the Foxes again. She was incredibly grateful that she had been given the chance.

Three months of shared spaces had built to this moment, from the balcony of Renee’s lighthouse to the deck of a circus boat. They had lived such different lives but a storm and a loss had brought them together, like the sea herself had wished for it, or the planets were aligned, each gravitational field pulling Renee and Allison closer together. Renee couldn’t help but follow that push and pull of that tide; she didn’t want to. She couldn’t imagine a world where she didn’t want to. If all of the stars above them held a tiny universe, another version of herself and another version of Allison, Renee knew that they would still be drawn together as they were in this universe, with this version of herself and this version of Allison. They were connected, by the sea, the stars, the tides, their lips, their hands, and, when they stopped kissing to catch their breaths, their gaze.

Renee saw Allison and Allison saw her, and that was all the world could ever contain in that moment. There was an entire world of magic and gods and nature, but all Renee could believe in was Allison, standing in front of her with their hands interlocked and their foreheads touching. Each breath was shared. Each stolen second was spent in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 95k to get to the first kiss? i swear it didn't feel this long when i was writing it


	17. sixteen

**brail** \ ˈbrāl \ a rope fastened to the leech of a sail and used for hauling the sail up or in

 **A** llison woke before dawn, which was the first sign that something was amiss. It was no secret that Allison preferred to greet the morning just as it was about to leave. She was back in her bunk, as Renee was now well enough to leave the forecastle in exchange for sharing Allison and Dan’s coracle. Dan, for the most part, decided to share Matt’s bed for a few nights and granted Allison and Renee some much-needed privacy. It couldn’t be permanent; it probably wouldn’t even last as long as Renee could stay aboard the _Foxhole,_ but Allison was going to appreciate it for as long as she could.

So she ignored the morning and shuffled closer into Renee’s embrace. Even in sleep, Renee’s arm around Allison’s waist tightened protectively, and Allison smiled to herself, smothering it in her pillow. She was used to it faintly smelling of coconut and shea nuts and whatever else she had used since its last wash, but now it smelled faintly of lavender, too. Despite the varying scents and oils Allison had offered her, Renee chose lavender every time. For all Allison mocked and teased her friends for their sentimentality, she could never bring herself to do the same when it came to Renee. She was getting soft and she had no plans to change that. She was happy.

Allison exhaled in contentment, but in her next intake of breath she smelled cedar, mahogany, and... seagrapes. She opened her eyes with a snap. There was only one island on the North-West archipelago that grew seagrapes. She tried to climb out of bed without waking Renee but the second she sat upright Renee’s eyes opened.

“Allison?” she asked, her voice groggy in a way that made Allison want to ignore everything outside and stay in bed with Renee until the sun hit its peak in the sky.

“It’s okay,” Allison whispered, knowing that Renee didn’t like loud noises early in the morning. “I just recognise where we are, that’s all.”

To say she recognised the smell of her home island was an understatement. It enveloped her. She wanted to climb out onto the _Foxhole_ and take the wheel from Wymack. She wanted to turn the ship around and sail to the empty sea without looking back. Instead she untied the canvas and peeked out, watching the distant island sharpen into clarity.

North-West 7 looked the same as it had four years ago. Even from this distance she could trace through the path to the copse, foot trodden from generations of processions. According to her mother, the processions once were only walked by married women while the rest of the island made their way to the copse, but those days were long gone. Even the island’s elders could only remember processions where every woman would walk around the island and up to the copse. There weren’t enough married women on the island to make an entire procession.

Allison had led six processions in her life. She hadn’t been surprised to be asked; even at twelve she knew she was the most loved child on the island. She had never been told this officially, but she had known it and never hesitated to tell anyone who would listen in case they needed the reminder. With every passing marriage Allison had been the one to carry the sacred cake, soaked in black rum since the engagement and veiled in white lace. It was the middle of the day, but Allison could almost smell the cinnamon and nutmeg from across the short distance to the shore.

Allison could make her way to the copse with her eyes closed from leading so many processions, but she had never waited in the copse for the procession to come to her. That wouldn’t have happened until Allison was to be married herself, and she had never found someone she loved back. She wasn’t entirely sure whether it was possible, or if the daydreams of her future would always remain daydreams.

The island had waited for Allison’s engagement, though her parents had grown more impatient with every passing day. She was becoming an embarrassment to them, according to her mother. She wouldn’t stay young forever, according to her father. For several years Allison took this as encouragement to wait even longer. She had decided that even if she met the person of her daydreams she would hold off their engagement until they were old and grey and had already lived a life of happiness. She had wanted to stay unmarried until her parents died, and drink and dance for eight days unaccompanied. On the ninth day she would get married, and her parents’ spirits wouldn’t recognise her in the slightest.

After a while she just wanted them to stop looking at her like her birth had been a mistake. Allison had been an only child, and they continued to remind her that a second daughter or a first son would have married first and made their family proud. Restored the grandeur of the Reynolds name and overcame the shame Allison brought them.

She had still refused to get married, but had tried countless other ways to pry for their attention. She had tried so hard to be the perfect daughter for them, to be enough on her own.

She hadn’t realised that it was an impossible dream until she first saw the circus boat approaching her island. The island had organised a circus for a wedding, and the entire island was invited. Allison had been to a circus show only once before, and though the sails were of a different colour her excitement was the same shade. The show wouldn’t start until after the ceremony in the copse, though, so Allison had turned her attention back to the cake. Her mother had peered over her shoulder as Allison simmered the dark sugar, then took the pan from Allison’s hands to stir it. Allison was good at cooking, but not as good as her mother. The cake was one of the most important parts of the day and it had to be perfect.

“Allison?” a voice asked, and Allison’s thoughts reeled back into the present. The island was still ahead of her, and she could still smell the cedar, mahogany, and sea grapes, but she wasn’t in her parent’s kitchen. She was in the coracle she shared with Dan, and Renee for a little while. Renee was standing beside her, something like concern etched into her expression.

“We’re here,” Allison said.

Renee nodded. “You said you’ve been here before?”

Allison looked back to the familiar blackshore. Ancient paintings that had hung on the walls of her parents’ house depicted North-West 7’s beaches, only the sand was white. Allison knew it wasn’t really like that, it couldn’t have been; the seaweed was a permanent fixture, as permanent as the sea. “I grew up here.”

Renee’s mouth made a little oh shape, and Allison wanted to kiss her. She wanted to kiss her again and again and again until every breath in her lungs had been Renee’s first. They didn’t have forever—they didn’t even have an uninterrupted morning—but making the most out of small pockets of privacy was what they had been doing ever since their first kiss almost two weeks ago.

“Did you like your life here?” Renee asked.

Allison had to think about it. With anyone else she would have scoffed and said _of course not,_ but with Renee she wanted to be truthful. Renee didn’t care that Allison used to be a landlocker; she had been too. They had both given up their lives on land for a life on the sea. Allison had told Renee about her parents and their shades of abuse, but Renee wasn’t asking about her parents.

“With another family I would have loved it,” Allison said. “I loved the food, the clothes, the music.” She paused to think about it, the memories of her childhood tiptoeing through her mind. “And I loved the community of it all. I have my family; I have the Foxes, but there’s something different about having an entire island know your name. As soon as I leave the _Foxhole_ no-one knows who I am. I’m a nobody.”

“You’re never a nobody,” Renee said, and Allison breathed out a laugh. “Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” Allison said quietly, a truth she had never told anyone. Not Dan or Seth, who had always been damplings: just Renee. “But I would never go back to it.”

Renee nodded, neither in agreement or confirmation that Allison wouldn’t leave her, but in acknowledgement that she had heard. Renee twisted to look over her shoulder at the _Foxhole,_ and Renee followed her gaze. The rest of the crew were on deck, tightening the brail as they approached the docks.

“Dan said that North-West 7 has a trading market open to damplings,” Renee said.

“The best in the archipelago.” Allison remembered being a child, running through the aisles of vendors and skidding to a stop every time something beautiful caught her eye.

“Do you want to go?”

Allison shook her head. “Damplings are welcome so long as they bring something to trade. The guards will let a couple of us in with what we have from the _Evermore_ but they’ll turn away all of us if we go together. Clams get unnerved when they see damplings in groups.”

Renee nodded, like she expected this. “We’re not exactly damplings though, are we.” Allison turned to look at her, an eyebrow arched in invitation to continue. “We could look around the island,” Renee said. “You will remember it well enough that we won’t look lost and neither of us walk like damplings on land.”

Allison already knew that she liked it when Renee brought out her conniving side, but it still surprised her every time. She looked back over to the _Foxhole_ where the others were still preparing the convoy to dock.

“Okay,” Allison said, “but we’ve got to leave now before the guards realise we’re from one of the ships.”

**landlubber** \ ˈland-ˌlə-bər \ a person unfamiliar with the sea or seamanship, from the root of _lubber,_ meaning clumsy or uncoordinated

 **I** t felt strange to walk on land without a bell chiming with every step. It felt stranger to walk on land and know where she was. Allison’s lungs throbbed at every intake of breath, heavy with smells of the leaves, earth, rain, food, animals, grass, strangers, and family.

She and Renee had pulled themselves ashore on the _Foxhole’_ s raft, and Renee had then sent the raft right back into its resting place under the jacob’s ladder where Wymack had left it. The surface was a little wet, but Allison doubted that the Foxes would notice. They would be too busy fantasising about how much food and supplies they could exchange for the _Evermore’_ s haul.

Renee kept equal pace with her, and their pace was fast. Community was paramount on North-West 7, so strangers off the blackshore would be gossip for days. It would be bad enough if they discovered strangers, but it would be worse if the island recognised one of their own. The angles and planes of Allison’s face was a mirror of her parents’. Every landlocker here knew the face of every other landlocker here—including that of the Reynolds. Allison didn’t want to risk the market being shut down.

For a dampling it was supposed to be impossible to get onto the island. Stowing away on a revival boat, pretending to be a trader: all pointless. They’d never get past the blackshore. But this was Allison’s home island. She understood how it worked.

The island’s guards would be on high alert all night, for North-West 7 was one of the wealthiest islands in the archipelago, but at dawn Allison knew that there would be a change in shifts, where exhausted guards would be replaced by the ones fresh from a night’s rest. They had to reach the trees before those new guards turned their watchful gaze on the shore.

So they kept a quick pace. They passed the gangway of the docks and took the path leading up between the stilt-homes. No one stopped them. The stilt-homes seemed so flimsy, the salvaged metal walls tarnished and their spindly legs constantly sucked and battered by the waves. Their roofs were planted with callaloo and sorell, and the remaining leaves shuffered in the breeze from the sea. But these houses had been there when Allison had left and they were still here when she returned. Four years had passed and they still stood.

As they walked further toward the island’s centre, the reclaimed land under their unbelled feet grew so steady that Allison felt a little dizzy. It had been fine when Dan took the crew inland: they had been together, the familiarity of the Foxes’ company a steady reassurance that she still belonged at sea. Without them, Allison felt untethered. She felt like she was returning back to her original home with a new wife in tow. Like she would open the front door to her home and say, _I’ve returned, father. You don’t need to be ashamed of me anymore. I will do exactly as you wished._

One look at Renee’s face brushed those thoughts away as insignificant and incredibly unrealistic. Renee looked as unmoored to be on land as Allison was. The sea was her home, even more so than it was Allison’s. Renee was only here for Allison’s sake, and Renee would lead her back to the sea when they were done. Allison reached out and clasped Renee’s hand in her own. Renee squeezed back, and everything was righted.

By the time their feet left the blackshore, dawn was stretching out across the horizon. The island was awakening, but most of the windows in the nearby stilt-homes were still dark. They carried on past the reclaimed homes, their wooden walls thin as fabric, their proportions larger and their roofs lower for maximum contact with the ground.

Memories of her childhood home loomed up, faded as the old paper Allison used to draw on: soaking in a herb-scented bath, her mouth watering for oxtail stew, the song of the wind in the trees and the rhythmic base of the rhumba box as the musicians played mento—and then falling fibres from the silk cotton tree and the tickle of lace against her wrist.

_Allison had a tradition. Every time she led a wedding procession, she would buy a new dress. This year, on what she knew would be her final procession, she had bought the finest dress she had ever laid eyes on, the softest piece of linen she’d ever felt._

_The cake she held was heavy, but she held it as high as she could. She forced herself not to react when the lace trim of the veil tickled her wrist._

_She sneaked a glance behind her to the long line of women from the island. She knew every single one of them. There was Teresa, the wife of the butcher. Odelle, one of the farmers’ wives. A long line of married women and Allison led them all. Their patience would soon wane. It was only a matter of time before the island picked a husband for her. Someone handsome yet dull, no doubt._

_She faced forward and shifted her attention back to the cake. The procession wasn’t even halfway around the island yet, and already her shoulders ached and her hands felt raw from clutching the copper plate so tightly, but it was her duty to lead the procession, and she would not flinch or buckle. She lifted the cake and marched on._

_In the days of the Old World, the land stretched out so far you could have walked it for weeks without a sniff of sea. That was the time of true processions, Allison’s mother told her: long gleeful snakes of people stretched across valleys and hills, calling in all the islands to join them for the celebration. Then the land shrank and shrank and shrank, until everyone had to march in circles around the island and spiral in to surround the copse at the centre. Houses were never built close to the copse, so those joining later on would still be able to take part in the procession._

_They stayed silent as Allison led them along the narrow path and into the heart of the copse. Their steps stirred up the soft white fibres from the fallen fruit; it would be collected soon, but not until after the wedding. At the heart of the copse grew the largest silk cotton tree. For the wedding it had been set all about with the banquet tables and benches carved from the oldest wood. There was a place set for each one of the islanders, from the youngest to the oldest. The platters and cutlery were made from the wood of the silk cotton tree, and each place had a single bowl of curried goat. Allison’s mouth started to water. She glanced around the table as the islanders took their places, and when everyone was still and silent, she placed the cake in the centre of the table, directly in front of the couple._

Allison took her place at the table, and breathed in the heady scent of curried goat. She may have been one of the wealthiest residents of the island, but even this was a delicacy she didn’t get to taste often. There was also charcoaled jerk chicken on offer, pumpkin soup, roasted corn that glowed golden in the torch light, and mountains of fruits. No one would go hungry that night; their island had good soil and could sustain many crops and animals. They had enough to fill the bellies of the whole island.

Allison and Renee now reached the trees. Houses and wrought iron fences flicked past as they walked. The sun had finally made its way over the horizon, and then they reached Allison’s old home. She hadn’t meant to take them there, but her feet had led the way without her mind’s acknowledgement. They paused in front of the gate.

Renee must have guessed what the house was and who it belonged to. “Do you want to go in?”

Allison didn’t know the answer to that question. She had no idea what she wanted. The house was on old land—the most valuable of all, reserved for native islanders. The ground held her feet so steadily that she thought she might fall. She reached for Renee’s hand for balance.

“Has Nicky ever told you about his parents?” Allison asked, so she didn’t have to think about Renee’s question.

Renee shook her head, but she answered verbally as well. “No.”

“They’re landlockers, too. His dad’s a revivalist, and his mother is from South-West 8.” Allison looked at the house before her, at the balconies and arched doors and dark windows that showed only Allison and Renee’s reflections. “They weren’t good parents. They didn’t accept Nicky for who he was, so Nicky left. You only joined us when he finally made a decision but he spent months trying to decide whether to invite them to his wedding. In the end, he figured that they had four years to write back to him, to include him in their life once more, to include themselves in his. He didn’t want to waste _‘the most important day of his life’_ on people whose love was conditional.” Allison smiled at the memory of Nicky saying that, of how his words had struck home to most of the Foxes. She wondered what Nicky would do now, if given the chance to see them again.

“Is that how you feel?” Renee asked.

“I don’t know,” Allison said honestly. “Growing up, family was always important to me. Important to everyone. I used to be so proud of my name.” She paused, thinking about how Neil had changed his name and Nicky couldn’t wait to take Erik’s, but she never had wanted to. She would be a Reynolds until the day she died. “I still am, really.” The house stood before her as unmoving and unchanging as the land. Allison expected to see a light turn on, or to hear footsteps heading toward the front door, but she saw and heard nothing. For all she could tell, the house was empty.

“It was hard to leave,” she continued. “When I became a Fox I was convinced I’d only stay for a month or two, a year at most. I didn’t think I’d actually be able to leave this whole place behind forever. I mean, how many landlockers leave a life of security for a life on the sea? By _choice?_ It’s unheard of.”

Renee nodded. “No one ever left my home island either.” The _not by choice_ went unsaid.

“Have you ever thought about returning?” Allison asked.

“It’s not possible. My sentence was for my life.”

“But if it was possible. Would you go back?”

Renee didn’t answer straight away. “No. I have a history there. Not one I’m proud of and not one I want to see again.”

Allison nodded, but she didn’t expect Renee to continue.

“I killed someone,” Renee said in a whisper, like she was afraid of being overheard.

“Did they deserve it?” Allison asked.

Renee turned her head to look at Allison so quickly that Allison was surprised she didn’t hear Renee’s neck snap. Whatever Renee was searching for in Allison’s expression, she must not have found it. Her shoulders sagged minutely. “Yes.”

Allison nodded again, firm. “Then I’m glad.”

She took another long look at the house, at the building that was once her home. Standing at the front gate of her mother’s garden, she felt disconnected from it. She remembered her life there, but she couldn’t imagine spending another minute walking down those hallways and spending her days in rooms cut off from the sea and air. Instead Allison could feel her entire future rolling out in front of her, blurry of detail but featuring one vital part: Renee, the sea witch, going with her as the _Foxhole_ travelled the world. That part felt crystal clear, and Allison could only think of one way to set it in stone.

“Come on,” she said, finally turning away from the house. “If we leave now we can get back to the _Foxhole_ before the others even notice we left.”

They were as quick on their way back to the docks as they were toward the trees. Renee held Allison’s hand as they walked, a kind of tether to the sea while they were both on land. It helped keep Allison’s thoughts from wandering, but when her feet hit the sand of the blackshore after so many steps on the solid earth, she couldn’t help but remember the last time she had run from her childhood home to the beach.

_With the whole community invited to the wedding celebrations, the seated area of the_ Foxhole Circus’ _big top had been crowded and sweaty. But all of that had faded to nothing when the ringmaster stepped on stage. The entire island gasped at his flame-like tattoos, his glittered cheeks, the boom of his voice so strong that it vibrated through each of their ribs. Allison felt a flame burst to life in her chest, and it only grew as the performance continued. She hadn’t felt this kind of awakening in years, not since she had stopped feeling like her life was her own. To see these damplings make a life for themselves on a circus boat—and what a life it was!—made her wonder if she was capable of it too. Hope was disquieting and all-encompassing, but it was something Allison was ready to drown herself in._

_Later, after the show, Allison had traded a pair of earrings for a small rowing boat, and she sculled from the shore to the circus schooner. With her chest of clothes strapped to her back, she climbed the anchor chain to the boat’s deck as swiftly as she climbed any tree in the copse after dark, and she let the rowing boat drift free behind her. She wouldn’t need it again._

_Crossing the deck was a challenge on landlubber legs, but she pulled herself together and rapped on the cabin door. It opened to reveal the ringmaster, bear-broad and haloed by the seal-fat lamp. Over his shoulder—as Allison was just as tall as he was—she saw the figures of the dancer and a handful of others she recognised from the show._

_“And who are you?” the ringmaster asked, unperturbed that a landlocker had snuck onto his ship._

_“Allison,” she said. “My name is Allison Reynolds. I’m here to join your circus.”_


	18. seventeen

**windward** \ ˈwind-wərd \ facing the wind or on the side facing the wind

 **T** he days passed, and the crew of the _Foxhole Circus_ rested. The stretch of sea between North-West 7 and North-East 1 was vast, so resting was all they could do. For almost an entire month they breathed nothing but salt air. They ate fish—more so, when Renee showed them how to wrap up thin slices in rice and seaweed. They warmed their toes in the sun and shared stories by moonlight. And when the stars came out, they looked up and saw the fox and the goose in the constellations.

Katelyn’s arrival brought a breath of fresh air. When the _Foxhole_ briefly anchored at North-East 1, Katelyn had given most of the Foxes a hug or a fist bump. Dan, Allison, Aaron, and Nicky all greeted her with an excited, _“Assalamo Alaikum”,_ which Renee recognised from Resting parties as her years as a gracekeeper.

_Assalamo Alaikum,_ Renee had said. _I’m Renee. I like the print on your hijab._

_Wa-Alaikum-us-Salam,_ Katelyn had replied with a cheery smile. _Thank you. I like your boots._

But after so long at sea the Foxes were restless, some more than others. Neil seemed more impatient than usual to reach the North-East archipelago, and he spent most of the days pacing back and forth across the deck with his fox at his heel, Andrew watching on with a bored expression. Four days into their journey, Neil finally let Kevin direct his energy.

Renee watched as they set up a series of trapeze bars, considerably closer to the deck than Renee had seen at the _Circus Evermore._ She took a set next to Andrew—within arm’s reach when he didn’t object to her presence—while Kevin showed Neil how to buckle his safety harness and clip on the lunge lines correctly.

“Kevin has been talking about this for a long time,” Renee said. Andrew only hummed in response, to acknowledge that he had heard her. “Why is it that Neil has only now chosen to accept?”

“Ask him,” Andrew said.

Though Renee didn’t doubt for a second that he knew the answer, she figured if Andrew wouldn’t tell her, then it wasn’t any of her business. She also considered it likely that if Allison found out she would tell Renee anyway.

Renee hadn’t seen that much of Allison for the past few days. Ever since they had left North-West 7, she had been spending more and more time with Dan. They still saw each other during the evenings, of course, and spent their nights together in Allison’s bunk. At first, Renee wondered whether she had done something wrong. She spent an entire day in her own head trying to remember every single second of their time on Allison’s home island, trying to pin down her slip up. She didn’t bring it up until Allison asked what was bothering her.

_I’m not avoiding you,_ Allison had said.

_I’ve barely seen you,_ Renee had replied. _Have I done something wrong?_

_No! Gods, no._ Allison had chewed on her bottom lip a little, drawing Renee’s attention to her mouth like a moth to a flame. _I’m working on something. Dan is helping me._

_Am I allowed to know?_

Allison had smiled at that, amused. _No. It’s a surprise._

Renee had more questions than she had answers, but she agreed to drop it. The reassurance that they were still okay had felt like a breath of relief.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Andrew said, drawing Renee out of her thoughts.

Neil was arguing something, though since Renee and Andrew were sat on the windward side of the boat she couldn’t hear his exact words. Neil made a running jump for the trapeze bar, and missed it by several inches. He dropped down toward the deck before his safety harness caught him. Renee winced.

Kevin felt no such sympathy. He put his hands on his hips and said something, probably along the lines of, _I told you so._ Neil showed him his middle finger.

Eventually Allison found her hours later, still sitting on the deck with Andrew. She paused for a moment before sitting down next to Renee, and leaning back on her hands to watch the day’s entertainment.

“Has he given up yet?” she asked.

“Neil or Kevin?” Renee asked.

“Either. Both. I don’t care.”

“Kevin won’t give up until Neil does everything perfectly,” Andrew said. “Neil won’t give up until he can do the same, but he will storm off every half-hour when Kevin’s an impatient asshole.”

“Kevin’s always an impatient asshole,” Allison scoffed, and Andrew dipped his head in agreement. Renee felt a warmth in her stomach at the sight of them getting along.

The three of them turned back to Kevin and Neil. It wasn’t long before the other Foxes came and went, and when Dan sat down beside Allison with a toothy grin, Allison only scowled.

“It looks like I’ll be getting very drunk for the next couple months,” Dan said, and Allison flipped her off. “Lovely to do business with you!”

It took Renee a moment to remember Allison and Dan’s bet over whether Neil would finally allow Kevin to teach him the trapeze. Allison had said that Dan’s judgement was clouded with optimism, but it seemed that optimism had won out in the end. Renee smiled, both to herself and at her friends, and wondered what else optimism could bring. She daydreamed about it as they watched Neil and Kevin practice until the sun dipped below the horizon.

**weigh anchor** \ ˈwā-ˈaŋ-kər \ to haul up the anchor; to leave

 **N** icky remembered the smell of North-East 5 as well as he remembered anything. It smelled so strongly of Erik and home that the first intake of breath that morning made his heart ache.

He lay in his bunk for several minutes, going through his mental list of everything he had to do before his wedding tomorrow. _His wedding._ Several years ago, he didn’t think he would have ever made it this far. He wouldn’t have thought it possible.

Aaron’s alarm clock started to ring, which meant that outside dawn was fast approaching. Nicky couldn’t see him since the clothes rail hung between their bunks, but he heard the telltale sounds of Aaron getting dressed and pulling out his prayer mat from under his bunk.

Nicky unbuckled himself from his bunk and pulled on his trousers and a fresh shirt. Erik’s family would be awake despite the early hour; it was only twenty-four hours until the first ceremony of the wedding. Twenty-four hours to prepare twelve turkeys, pan de yema, clayudas, and hot chocolate—gods, what if Andrew broke into the hold and made a start on the chocolate already? No, he wouldn’t. It was stored alongside the mezcal and mole paste so he knew it was important. The _Foxhole_ hadn’t carried edible goods all the way from South-West 8 without good reason. And Neil could do the math; they had over a hundred mouths to feed and had little to spare.

A minute later, while Nicky was still standing in place doing nothing but worry, he heard the screech of metal as Aaron cleared a space between the hangers of costumes. Aaron looked as unimpressed as he was tired.

“Stop stressing out,” Aaron said. “It will be fine. We know what we’re doing and Erik’s family have been preparing for weeks.”

Nicky exhaled and nodded. “Yeah.”

He reached up to unclip the canvas top of their coracle. The blackshore looked the same as most beaches, but on North-East 5 it didn’t stretch far out. The water was deep enough for the _Foxhole_ to anchor at the docks, so the islanders would have an easier time boarding for the circus performance the following night.

Nicky followed Aaron out of their coracle and over toward the _Foxhole._ He noticed the other Foxes climbing out of their own coracles too, ready to start a day of hard work. Nicky had to bite his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning. He shouldn’t have been surprised; he constantly badgered Neil about accepting that the Foxes were a family who cared for each other. It was heartwarming to see it applied to himself. His smile dropped into an exasperated huff when Aaron nearly tripped him up to get to the girls’ coracle so he could help Katelyn step up onto the canvas top with unsteady, landlocker legs. Katelyn accepted his hand with her left, while in her right she carried her own prayer rug and a bundle of clothes. Nicky didn’t hear the words spoken between them, but he noticed when Aaron blushed and accepted half of the clothes with a nod.

Once they were all seated on the raft, Matt pulled them over toward the blackshore. When they edged around the _Foxhole,_ Nicky finally saw who was waiting on the docks.

It had been over a year since he had seen Erik last, but now he could see his face and his shoulders and his torso and _his legs._ Nicky couldn’t bear to wait the remaining seconds for the raft to reach land. He abruptly stood up and jumped off the side, just missing Andrew’s hand as he attempted to pull him back.

The water was freezing and littered with flotsam, but Nicky barely gave it a second’s thought as he swam to shore. Every second seemed to drag on, but eventually his toes hit the rocks and he scrambled upright and threw himself at Erik.

_Home._

Every thought about the day ahead of them or the days in the past left Nicky’s mind. His clothes were soaking and he probably stank but all he could think about was how _right_ it was to be in Erik’s arms again. He heard the Foxes pull onto the blackshore behind them and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the guards arrived to check their papers, but Erik’s arms tightened around him and he felt kisses press into the bare skin on his neck.

“I missed you,” Nicky said into Erik’s blond hair, slipping into the tongue of North-East 5’s natives.

“I missed you too,” Erik said in the same language. “So, so much.”

_“‘We have so much to do’,_ he says,” came the derisive voice of Allison, though Nicky didn’t turn around to face her. _“‘We can’t waste another second,’_ he insists.”

Nicky reluctantly took one of his arms back from where they had both been wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and reached out blindly behind him to flip her off. From Allison’s laughter and Matt’s, _‘What did I do?’,_ Nicky assumed his aim was off.

He felt the rumble of Erik’s laughter underneath his cheek, and whined a little when Erik’s grip slackened around his waist.

“Welcome,” Erik said, in the common tongue of the North-West archipelago. “Please, follow me. We have a lot to do.”

Nicky ignored the Foxes’ grumbling and slipped his hand into Erik’s. They made their way off the blackshore without interruption from the guards—Erik’s doing, no doubt—and followed the long, winding footpath to Erik’s family’s house.

Erik’s family lived just on the border between the old land and the reclaimed land. It was close to the surface of the ground, but not sunk down into the foundations to be near cocooned by it. Erik’s family worked the land, so they weren’t expected to be back for several hours. Nicky had prepared for that though; it was why the Foxes had joined them to help.

It was Abby who quickly stepped up into a leadership role for the preparations. While it wasn’t her usual role on the _Foxhole,_ she was the one who knew how to best prepare the food they would need the following day.

Abby had lived as a dampling for half her life, but she had grown up on South-West 8, the same island Nicky’s mother was born. For years Nicky had been entirely disconnected from his mother’s culture, but it was Abby who helped him bridge that gap. She taught him their language and their customs with pride, where his mother had only taught him the customs of her husband’s home. He had grown up knowing that he looked different from the other children on his home island, but until Abby he had never been able to connect with his sense of identity.

It was why he had chosen Abby to give him away at his wedding.

The day would be a blend of both South-West 8 and North-East 5 traditions. For the procession, all attendees would wear masks made from the oak leaves, but there would be dancers and a band and two huge marionettes that Erik’s sisters had made. Erik opened the front door to his house, and after so long at sea, the smell of oak leaves was overwhelming. Nicky saw Allison scrunch up her face in disgust, so Nicky smiled brightly and directed her inside. He smiled wider at her glare but felt a little guilty when Renee gave him the same expression. Renee didn’t glare often, but Nicky was fairly certain that whenever she had in the past it was because someone had made a joke at Allison’s expense.

Aaron made to take off his shoes in his automatic North-West 5 ‘politeness’ but Nicky smacked his hands away. Nicky didn’t need politeness; he needed his cousin to not get sick the day before his wedding. He had too much to worry about already. Aaron rolled his eyes and muttered something about _‘superstitious bastard’_ but caught the thick-bristled brush Andrew threw at him. He scrubbed at the soles of his shoes with the brush to get the most of the dirt off, and then followed Andrew inside, passing the brush to Kevin to do the same.

Once inside, everyone gathered in the hallway. Erik pointed down the hallway and said to Aaron and Katelyn, “Bathroom’s second door on the right. Use any of the bedrooms: no one will interrupt you.”

Aaron nodded and Katelyn flipped open the tiny compass she wore around her neck. “Thanks,” she said, and led the way.

The rest of the Foxes were split into two groups; half following Erik into the kitchen to start on the food, and the other half to the living room to find the crates of oak leaves. In his last letter Erik had told him that he spent most mornings before work collecting the leaves. Nicky had only made masks like this a few times before, but he remembered well enough to correct Kevin’s stitching every few minutes.

For his own mask Nicky collected the largest leaves he dared. On North-East 5 only the island elders were allowed the king leaves—their masks were one enormous leaf, while everyone else had to stitch together lots of smaller leaves. Nicky could never be an elder, as he wasn’t native to the island, but if Erik ever became one then Nicky would become an elder’s husband, allowing him to wear a mask made of two leaves.

By spending the majority of the time helping everyone else, Nicky’s own mask was nowhere near finished by the time Aaron came through from the kitchen. He took a seat next to Kevin and started on his own mask. His stitching was good, as Nicky would expect from a doctor in training, and he often reached over to redo Kevin’s own mask, which was a terrible piece of handiwork. Kevin was lucky that he was pretty.

Neil’s stitching was better, though not as good as Aaron’s. Nicky had the uncomfortable realisation that it was probably from stitching up his own wounds while he was on the run. He was glad that Neil and Andrew had managed to find each other, that they could look after each other while Nicky couldn’t. He needed to remember to remind Neil to check what Andrew was eating because Neil couldn’t even check up on himself. He probably didn’t even know what a healthy diet looked like. And they both needed help filling in their dampling license forms. Wymack would probably help them, but would he even think to offer? Andrew and Neil wouldn’t ask for help.

As soon the thoughts started circulating, Nicky couldn’t do anything to stop them from spiralling. He stopped stitching without meaning to, and suddenly a hand waved in front of his face. Nicky’s gaze focused on Aaron, who was frowning a little.

“You okay?” he asked.

Nicky nodded and started to smile, about to wave off his concern. He didn’t want Aaron to worry about him. Aaron would be moving to North-East 1 soon and become a doctor for landlockers. The clams probably had illnesses that couldn’t be fixed with eucalyptus oil, menthol, and camphor. Would Aaron even think to try it?

Aaron’s frown turned into a slight scowl. “Seriously, Nicky. What’s wrong?”

Nicky sighed. “I worry about you, you know? Who’s going to look after you all when I’m here.”

Aaron didn’t offer any platitudes about there being nothing to worry about; they were Foxes, and there would always be trouble for Foxes. Instead he continued stitching his mask and said, “You’ve got too much to do today to worry about what’s going to happen next. And we have Andrew.”

Andrew looked up at the sound of his name, though Nicky thought it likely he had been listening in for the entire time. He stared at his brother, and something passed between them that Nicky hoped was gratitude. A lot had happened between them, some bad and some good, but neither had ever said thank you to the other. Nicky knew that Aaron struggled to accept what Andrew did to Tilda, and Nicky often struggled with that himself. It wasn’t like Tilda was a good person, but she was still Aaron’s mother and Andrew had taken that away from him. Aaron had never had closure.

“Besides,” Aaron continued, breaking eye contact with Andrew to look at Nicky again. “Life won’t change for us. You’re going to live on land for the rest of your life.” When Nicky still didn’t seem sold, Aaron asked, “Aren’t you hungry?”

Nicky laughed. “Of course. I’m always hungry.”

“Sure. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. Every damned dampling between here and the equator is hungry. You know who’s not hungry, Nicky? The landlockers. And you’re going to become one again.”

“So will you.”

Aaron smiled a little at that, and it only made Nicky’s own grin break out onto his face. He remembered meeting the twins for the first time: sullen little gremlins who wouldn’t recognise joy if it slapped them in the face. He looked at them now: Aaron’s small smile as he thought about his future with Katelyn, Andrew with his quiet contentment with Neil. If they were happy, Nicky was going to be happy for them.

“Fine,” Nicky said. “But you’d best believe I’ll be sending food when I can.”

Aaron nodded but Andrew’s expression twitched a little. “Not leeks.”

“We can give them to Kevin,” Neil suggested, though Kevin was too focused on ruining his mask to hear his name.

Andrew nodded, their deal finalised. Nicky chewed on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and drawing attention to how _goddamned cute they were,_ even within their own family’s company.

The thought of food made Nicky’s mouth start to water, more so when the door to the kitchen opened and the smell of fresh bread and cooking meats came into the living area alongside Erik and Katelyn.

“I think we’ve done what we can in the kitchen,” Katelyn said. “At least for another hour or so. Do you need a hand after for all of... this?” She gestured to the mess of leaves and string on the floor.

“Kevin’s working backwards so we’ll need all hands on deck,” Aaron said wryly, making Katelyn laugh as she sat down beside him and started to gather a collection of russet leaves.

Nicky stayed seated on the floor and smiled up at his husband to be. For all his worries about his cousins once the _Foxhole_ weighed anchor and left Nicky behind, Nicky was certain that he wanted to marry Erik. Even if Erik’s family didn’t work on the land, even if Erik wasn’t a landlocker, Nicky would love him. He couldn’t wait to grow old with him, because growing old was a possibility on land. He would get to see Erik’s hair grow grey and his own too.

He had his entire future ahead of him, and starting tomorrow, that future would be spent with the love of his life.


	19. eighteen

**hardtack** \ ˈhärd-ˌtak \ bread made from flour and water baked into a moisture-free rock to prevent spoilage

 **A** fter working all day at Erik’s house, the Foxes were quick to spend the night tucked up in their coracles. Since Katelyn’s arrival Dan had moved in with Matt and Seth, and Katelyn took Dan’s bed. Katelyn always woke first for her morning prayers at dawn, but on the day of Nicky’s wedding Allison’s alarm rang moments after Katelyn’s did.

Renee slipped out of the bunk she shared with Allison while Katelyn sat up and stretched her arms over her head, popping her joints. They both had to drag the blankets off Allison’s steadfastly sleeping body and pull at her wrists to get her out of bed. Renee grinned the entire time and laughed at every grumble and scowl and middle finger.

“I hate the both of you,” Allison said as she stood up, voice groggy and rough in a way that made Renee want to rush Katelyn out of the coracle and push Allison back down onto the bed. “So, so much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Katelyn said uncaringly. She looped her arm over Allison’s shoulders. “But you’ve got hardtacks to look forward to.”

This earned displeased groans from both Allison and Renee. Since Nicky was taking Abby with him to the morning ceremony of his wedding, and all of the fresh ingredients had been used in the wedding preparations, all the Foxes could prepare on their own were bland biscuits. Renee knew that the entire day would be filled with delicious food, but she wasn’t enthusiastic about starting the day so badly.

Renee lit the seal-fat lamps while Allison pushed herself out of bed and Katelyn pulled on loose trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. After pulling on her own clothes, Allison untied the headscarf she slept in just as Katelyn put on her hijab, made of a deep red fabric with golden embroidery.

“God, that’s gorgeous,” Allison said, admiring the delicate stitching. 

“Two week’s worth of work,” Katelyn said, adjusting the fabric so all of her hair was covered. “Definitely worth it.”

“What colour are your clothes for later?”

Katelyn sighed. “Purple. I tried finding a dye for weeks that would match my takchita but the closest I got was sumac.” She laughed when Allison winced. “Exactly.”

Allison hummed and chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, deep in thought. Renee wondered how long it had taken her to pick up on Allison’s body language like that.

“I think I have a headscarf that will work. One minute.”

Allison ducked down to reach under her bunk, and pulled out a tin chest. Inside were swathes of fabric, a whole rainbow of colour in every material Renee could think of. After rummaging around for a few moments Allison pulled out a piece of indigo silk, with a floral pattern made from bleaching the fabric in the sun under a stencil. She held it out and said, “Will this shade work?”

Katelyn took it and unfolded it to its full size. She nodded. “This is perfect. And you’re sure you won’t need it?”

Allison shook her head. “I promised Dan I’d let her do my hair so she might kill me if I cover whatever she does with a scarf.”

Katelyn eyed the fabric again with a grin. “Then I’ll take this off your hands for the day. Thank you!” She folded the scarf once more and set it atop Dan’s bunk, and then pulled on her shoes and grabbed her prayer mat and another set of clothes. The Foxes had tried to clean the chain linking the coracles to the _Foxhole,_ but no matter how much rust and muck they scrubbed off, there was no way Katelyn or Aaron would be able to climb across without getting their clothes dirty. Prayer mat rolled and tucked under her arm, Katelyn unclipped the canvas top of the coracle and climbed out, throwing a whispered farewell over her shoulder.

Though Renee knew that Allison wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, they had a lot to do that morning, starting with preparing the flaxseed gel. Heating the seeds in water on the hot plate seemed obvious, but when Allison told her to lower the jar into the sea over the side of the coracle to cool, Renee didn’t know how she could tell when it was ready.

Katelyn returned a little while later, and changed clothes once more, this time into her takchita. It was composed of two pieces, the first layer in a bright shade of purple that reminded Renee of ochre sea stars. The second layer was more elaborate: richly adorned with silver embroidery. Renee watched with a fond smile while Allison and Katelyn chatted about fabrics and dyes and patterns, and the conversation only shifted when Nicky knocked on the side of the coracle.

“Can I come in?” he shouted, pointedly looking out to sea.

“You’re never this polite when it’s just us,” Allison said.

“Maybe I don’t like you,” Nicky said.

“Maybe he just likes me the most,” Katelyn added in a feigned attempt to keep the peace. “Yeah, Nicky. You can come in.”

Nicky dropped down into the coracle, his feet making a light thud. “Okay, I’m ready to be pretty.”

By the light of the seal-fat lamps, Allison ran the gel through his hair, styling it into neat curls and braiding small sections with brightly coloured ribbons and glitter. Nicky would become a landlocker soon but he would always be a circus performer at heart.

Nicky and Katelyn left for the morning ceremony of the wedding almost as soon as Allison was done with his hair and face. Renee and Allison waved them off as they joined Andrew, Neil, Kevin, and Aaron on the raft. Matt went with them too, but once they reached the blackshore Matt hugged Nicky—and Renee had laughed when Allison gasped when she thought Nicky’s hair might be ruined—and then pulled the raft back to the _Foxhole._

By the time the morning sunlight finally graced the _Foxhole Circus’_ convoy, Renee’s stomach was rumbling. Her brain wasn’t looking forward to the hardtacks in the slightest, but the rest of her body strongly disagreed.

Despite the disappointing food on offer, the Foxes were as boisterous as they always were. The forecastle felt a little empty with half of the crew missing, but the rest made up for it in volume. For the most part they complained about the hardtack and expressed their love for the foods they were expecting at the second half of the wedding. When the bowls were cleared, they made their way back to their coracles to get ready for the rest of the wedding celebrations. Dan followed Renee and Allison inside theirs, but left the canvas top open when she climbed, allowing some of the morning light in.

Allison headed straight back to her bunk and pulled out her chest again. Renee only just managed to catch the blue fabric thrown at her.

Once unfolded Renee realised it was a velvet jacket, pearls stitched onto the sleeves in place of buttons. A moment later, a matching set of trousers hit her in the face. She caught them on their way down and glared at Allison, who only smiled beatifically.

“Damn it,” Dan said, who was rummaging around her own clothes. “Be right back.”

She left the coracle without further explanation, and Allison turned back to Renee.

“You wanna try on this suit?” Allison asked.

Renee stepped toward her and tugged at Allison’s shirt. “I can think of something I’d much rather do until Dan gets back.”

Allison’s pupils swallowed her already dark irises; something almost impossible to notice unless you were already looking for it. She reached over to Dan’s bed and picked up the bundle of clothes. A moment later, the clothes were pushed up onto the roof of the coracle, the canvas clipped shut once more, and a seal-lamp was lit.

“Now she has no reason to rush back,” Allison said. She took Renee’s hand and pulled her further into the depths of their coracle. “We have all the time in the world.”

**rutter** \ ˈrətə(r) \ a book of charts, a journal, log book or set of sailing instructions used by a navigator

 **I** n the end, Renee and Allison just managed to scrape enough time to get dressed and ready for the wedding. The suit Allison had given Renee fit her perfectly, the sleeves wide enough for her arms and shoulders without stretching the fabric. Renee still wore her heavy boots but the trousers were long enough in the leg to cover them without dragging along the floor.

Allison had made her take it off again so that they could style each other’s hair on the floor of the coracle. While Dan pulled Allison’s braids up into an elaborate knot atop her head, one braid hanging down on either side of her face, Allison sat on the floor with her legs outstretched. Renee sat between them with her back to Allison, and Allison’s fingers ran through Renee’s dark hair with gentle fingers. Renee was quite content to stay like that forever, but they had friends to support.

Allison hummed in disapproval and tugged gently at a lock of Renee’s hair. “It just needs something… more.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Renee said with a feigned sigh. “And here I was thinking I looked rather nice in the suit.”

Allison tugged on Renee’s hair again. “Shut up. You looked incredible.” She then leaned in—ignoring Dan’s outcry as a braid was almost tucked into place and then lost again—to murmur in Renee’s ear, “Almost as good as you did half an hour ago with your face between my legs.”

Renee felt her face heat up. She couldn’t see Allison’s face but she could still feel the smugness radiating from her as if it were a wave of the ocean. Renee reached out to Allison’s leg and dragged slow fingertips up toward her knee and back down again. 

Allison went back to playing with Renee’s hair. A moment later Renee felt Allison twisting around to talk to Dan. “What if we used the chalk?”

“We don’t have enough to do all of it,” Dan said, though Renee couldn’t follow the conversation in the slightest.

“Not all of it,” Allison said. “Just the tips.”

“Then yeah. I think it would look good.”

Allison then turned back around. “Babe?”

This wasn’t the first time Allison had used a term of endearment for her, but Renee’s heart still skipped a beat when she heard the pet name. “Hm?”

“How do you feel about colouring your hair? Just for the day. I could make it permanent but we’d need to bleach it and we don’t have time for that today.”

Renee didn’t need to consider it for long. She wasn’t particularly attached to her hair and more attached to making Allison happy. She shrugged and nodded, and Allison planted a quick kiss on her cheek before rising to her feet. Renee lent back on her hands to watch Allison potter about her supplies, reaching for the sticks of coloured chalk and talking to Dan about pigment and tone.

Allison caught Renee watching and held up one of the chalks. “These are incomparable. Nicky once made a chartreuse dye from eels, and it damaged everyone’s hair so much that it crumbled in our hands.”

“Allison hadn’t spoken to Nicky for three weeks because of it,” Dan added.

Allison waved a hand dismissively. “And I would have pushed him overboard if Andrew wasn’t around to retaliate.”

Renee smiled fondly. When Allison settled behind her one more Renee was content to close her eyes and appreciate the feeling of Allison’s hands in her hair. She had been surprised how straightforward it had been, getting to the point where she felt comfortable having Allison at her back. At the start Renee had said that she needed to take things slow and, for the most part, take the lead. It helped that Allison was nothing like her abusers. Even in the middle of the night, when Renee awoke from one of her nightmares, the soft skin of the arm wrapped around her or the constant smell of coconut and shea butter reminded her where she was and who she was with. Even when she was awake she’d had to be careful with herself. She’d told Allison that she wasn’t comfortable being on the receiving end of anything, at least not yet, but Allison had been more than happy to lie back and enjoy Renee’s fingers and tongue, bodies moving together with the rhythm of the waves. Renee would take care to kiss every one of Allison’s scars, built up over the years of performances at dozens of different islands. Sometimes Renee could swear she could see entire constellations in the ripples and breaks of her skin.

Renee opened her eyes and focused on the present. They didn’t have long left until they had to leave for the wedding, and she didn’t want to lose Nicky’s wedding to daydreams.

Allison sprayed Renee’s hair with water again and again until rivulets of water chased down Renee’s face. She brushed them away with a finger. Allison combed through Renee’s short hair once more with her fingers and separated a section out. Allison didn’t ask what colours Renee wanted, either because she knew that Renee didn’t care or because she had a vision in mind that she wouldn’t stray from. Allison picked a piece of chalk from the jar and rubbed the end against the tips of Renee’s hair in long, smooth motions. Renee felt her hair being twisted back and forth every so often, and the cold spray of water when Allison switched to a different chalk felt soothing on her scalp. She closed her eyes to Allison’s ministrations, and let herself wonder what this life would be like to live forever.

Allison wouldn’t let Renee touch her hair while the chalk dried. After what felt like an entire day but couldn’t have been more than half an hour Allison let Renee pull on Jean’s white gracekeeper shirt and the velvet suit. Renee felt her mouth dry when she turned around to see Allison wearing a red silken dress that clinged to her curves, the pink feather coat she had stolen from the _Evermore_ draped over her shoulder.

Allison arched an eyebrow when she caught Renee staring. “What?”

Renee opened her mouth and closed it again. “You look beautiful.”

For all of Allison’s attitude and confidence when anyone else complimented her, Allison’s cheeks darkened and a small smile tugged at her full lips. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re both gorgeous,” Dan said, sporting a yellow dress and equally bright silk flowers in her locs. “Now let’s go.”

They found the rest of the crew on the raft, Matt and Seth climbing aboard while Wymack held it steady. Seth cheered and Matt feigned to fan himself when they caught sight of the women making their way over. Wymack only rolled his eyes and pulled the raft to shore.

The landlockers had spent the previous day wrapping bright ribbons around the stilts of the houses on the reclaimed land in preparation for the wedding procession. Allison had told Renee about the weddings of North-West 7, and Renee wondered how this one would differ. She remembered the ceremonies of North-East 9, of camphor-carved geese, and dates and chestnuts thrown for the bride. Renee had examined every inch of her chart—now pinned in their coracle since Kevin had copied it down onto a blank page of his rutter—but they never showed how much the islands differed from one another beyond the shapes of their beaches.

Renee could distantly hear the music of the band, but they would have to wait on the blackshore for the procession to come their way. Nicky and Erik would be in the lead, and the Foxes could step in after them and follow the beribboned path to the island’s copse. Nicky had explained that Erik’s family believed in the old gods, and so it was important for them that the trees and the gods of the land witnessed the couple’s vows.

The music grew louder and louder, a joyful tune of life and love. The first thing Renee caught sight of were the two marionettes made from metal and wood and fallen leaves, larger than life. As they came closer Renee could see how the marionettes had been painted to represent Nicky and Erik. Eventually Renee could make out the actual Nicky and Erik, unable to look away from each other for even a second. Their families followed behind, and Renee could just make out glimpses of Neil and the twins—though Renee couldn’t tell who was who because of the oak leaf masks obscuring their faces. Katelyn, Kevin, and Abby were easier to spot, taller than Neil and the twins but clearly accompanying Nicky’s side of the family. She saw the band, the sun gleaming off the polished brass instruments, and the dancers, skirts twirling in bright colours to match the ribbons in their long braids and the flowers in the baskets they carried on their heads.

Nicky grinned and waved when he finally looked away from Erik and toward the blackshore. Renee waved back with a smile, and Allison slipped her hand into Renee’s and tugged her forward, pulling her into the throng of the procession. The music was loud enough to drown out any thoughts, but Renee’s smile widened and she twirled Allison around and around, even if Allison had to duck under her own arm to keep their hands connected. Beside them Dan and Matt danced too, though their routine was decidedly more elaborate. Matt gripped Dan by the waist as Dan leapt up into the air, her legs splitting in a way that almost made Renee wince. Dan made it look effortless. Aaron spun Katelyn around while Andrew walked on as if none of it were happening around him. Seth darted forward toward the others and held his hand out to Neil dramatically with a bow. Neil laughed and said something to Andrew before he took Seth’s hand and let himself be swung into the air like it was an act on the _Foxhole._

Seeing all the colour and glamour and dramatics made Renee all the more excited for the Foxes’ performances that night. The _Foxhole Circus_ would give its best and brightest show yet, as Dan and Allison continued to tell Renee every night. Renee couldn’t wait. She knew it would be her only chance to see them perform before they turned around to take her back to her graceyard.

 __

She didn’t want to think about it. She forced her mind away from the neverending still waters and the dead birds and the mourning people. She focused on the music and the ribbons and Allison’s smile, brighter and more wonderful than everything else she had seen since stepping onto North-East 5 that day.

 __

The procession circled the island until the houses grew lower and the ribbons stopped wrapping around stilts and started wrapping around roofs. The first few steps on the old land unbalanced both Renee and Allison, as well as the other damplings, but it was clear to see that the majority of the crowd easily found their footing on the solid earth.

 __

The music of the band changed as they reached the copse, the guitar taking the lead. Renee didn’t know much of the language of South-West 8, but she picked up enough to recognise a story of love overcoming separation. She smiled as she looked at Nicky and Erik, and she was glad they weren’t separated anymore.

 __

They all had to duck under the low hanging branches of the copse to avoid snapping a branch. The trees here were as decorated as the rest of the island—more so, even. Ribbons wrapped around their mighty trunks, and fallen leaves were painted in shades of red and gold and blue, strung up onto the branches with ribbon like they had been reanimated by magic. For a brief moment Renee wondered whether that was possible; whether trees could be awoken once more. Could an earth witch grow powerful enough to create another island? Another world?

 __

One of the islanders stood by the World Tree, and Renee was surprised by how aged his face was. She had never seen anyone so old, not for a long time. Damplings rarely lived long enough to see a full head of grey hair. The islander’s mask was made of a single oak leaf, so Renee realised that he must have been one of the island’s elders. He directed them to gather around, and when everyone was settled, he nodded to Nicky and Erik.

 __

Nicky took Abby’s arm, and Erik took his mother’s, and together they walked toward the World Tree.

 __

The ceremony was short. After Nicky and Erik promised to love and support and protect one another, Nicky swapped Erik’s engagement ring to his right hand, and Erik did the same to Nicky’s. New islanders then arrived, bringing with them tin tables, the metal etched to resemble wood grain in the same way the slats of the dock of Renee’s lighthouse were. Renee expected to feel a pang of homesickness at such familiarity, but her heart was calm. The head table was reserved for Nicky, Erik, and their closest family, so Renee took her place at the end of a different table. Allison quickly dropped down into one of the seats beside her, and Seth took the other.

 __

A plate of pan de yema was set before her with a bowl of something brown and steaming. Renee and Allison thanked the islander, and Seth rushed to do the same with his mouth full of bread. Renee reached for the small bowl, and the first sip was overwhelmingly sweet. Renee had to fight the urge to drain the entire bowl in one go.

 __

“What is this?” she asked no-one in particular.

 __

Allison brought her own bowl to her face and sniffed. “Hot chocolate.”

 __

“It’s delicious.”

 __

Seth put his empty bowl back down onto the table and licked his lips. “The cocoa only grows in the south archipelagos, and the clams rarely spare it for us damplings. Make the most of it while you can.”

 __

Renee smiled and brought her almost empty bowl back to her lips, hoping to taste every last drop.

 __

The band continued to play, though a little quieter now, as guests mingled and gossiped. Renee found herself roped into several new bets, and tried very hard not to think about how much she would miss the Foxes’ antics. Allison seemed to have picked up on her somber mood and quickly changed the conversation to centre around her impatience for the next round of food and entertainment. Renee murmured her gratitude into her ear while Allison adjusted the lapels of Renee’s suit.

 __

She found a little while’s solace on the walk from the copse to one of the islander’s houses. The family had agreed to lend Nicky and Erik the key so Katelyn, Aaron, and a couple other islanders who Renee didn’t know the names of could pray inside where it was clean and quiet. Renee didn’t go inside with them, only sat outside in the shade of the house and let the cool breeze calm her thoughts.

 __

They returned to the copse only a few moments before more food was brought out: egadito with clayados; roasted rabbits; mole poblano; bone tubs of honey and mustard and rock salt; salads of nasturtium and nettle; barbecued goat in a vegetable broth, served with small bowls of chopped onion, cilantro, cabbage, fresh chili and radish to season; bread as white as snow, made from fine-milled wheat with a sugar-crunchy crust; more bread as brown as the earth and peppered with seeds; turkeys roasted with butter and garlic, their combs fried and crispy. Not all the items that grew on the earth could be found. Pomegranates, bananas, and lemons were missing from the northern archipelago harvest, and so as a compromise, these missing items were carved from sacred oak wood and placed on platters. Tin jugs of mezcal were set on the tables. When Allison offered her some, Renee declined and promised to have a little later on with Nicky.

 __

As they ate, torches were lit. Under the high canopy of leaves it was difficult to see the sky, but after a while the soft filtering sunlight soon waned. The torches were low enough that the flames couldn’t dream of touching the trees, but each torch still had a supervising landlocker, just in case.

 __

Gifts were set on the head table, and Renee spotted fresh flowers and preserved fruits and small objects carved from woods. Katelyn gifted them a terracotta jar of spices from North-East 1, and Erik’s parents presented them a metate. There was an inscription on the side in white writing, though Renee was too far away to see. She was also too far away to hear what Erik’s mother said, but whatever it was had brought tears to Nicky’s eyes and he reached over the table to hug her. Erik grabbed hold of Nicky’s loose shirt so it wouldn’t drag into his plate of food.

 __

When everyone had finished eating, the band started to play that same gentle tune of love and separation. Guests rose from their seats and the Foxes were quick to follow. Nicky and Erik led the way out of the copse, and the procession began again. Cups of mezcal were offered and, with the exception of Renee, Kevin, Katelyn, and Aaron, everyone accepted a cup to take with them. They sang and danced and drank by torchlight all the way down to the blackshore. A pathway constructed of metal boards etched with wood grain had been laid from the reclaimed land all the way across the blackshore and up onto the deck of the _Foxhole._ The big top had been set up the night before; all the Foxes needed to do was change their clothes and apply their makeup. Renee wondered how they would be able to perform after such a feast, but when she glanced over to her friends she saw that they were brimming with energy.

 __

When the wedding party boarded the _Foxhole,_ Renee split from the rest of the Foxes. Dan led them behindcurtains, though Allison didn’t immediately follow. She kissed Renee on the lips softly, and said, “Keep an eye out for me.” If Renee didn’t know her any better, she would have said Allison sounded nervous. “I’ll look pretty different in costume.”

 __

Renee told her that she could come back onstage in an entirely different body and she would still recognise her. Before Allison slipped away, Renee kissed her again, a little more insistently, and added, “Have fun.”

 __

Allison laughed. “I always do,” she said, and then turned to follow the rest of her circus folk.

 __

Renee turned back to the rest of the wedding party and spotted Nicky and Katelyn. Nicky wouldn’t perform that night, in favour of watching the show with his new husband and their new neighbours. When Nicky looked over and saw Renee standing alone, he waved her over with a grin.

 __

“Save me a dance?” he asked once she was within earshot.

 __

Renee smiled and squeezed his hands. “I would love to.”

 __

“But first,” Abby said, making her way over with two tin cups in hand. She passed them to Renee and Katelyn and said, “It’s just fruit juice. Pressed it myself.” Renee and Katelyn thanked her, and it was then that Renee noticed several islanders carrying trays of more cups. Nicky accepted one of them, and Renee caught a whiff of mezcal.

 __

Abby tapped her bracelet against her cup, and the noise of tin against tin alerted the rest of the guests. The chatter died down quickly. She welcomed everyone in the language of North-East 5, which Nicky must have taught her. Erik’s father then spoke too, thanking the guests for coming. Though the majority of the Foxes couldn’t understand his words, they knew to stay quiet and listen regardless. After everyone drank in toast to Nicky and Erik — the juice sweet and tangy on Renee’s tongue — the lights above the deck of the Foxhole were lit and the band picked up the tempo. Abby handed her cup to Renee, and then took Nicky’s hand.

 __

Nicky and Abby stepped up onto the stage and started to dance, their movements well practiced and fluid. Renee smiled as she watched them, more so when she caught Andrew watching from the wings of the _Foxhole Circus’_ stage. Neil stood beside him and said something into Andrew’s ear. Andrew only put his hand on Neil’s face and shoved him away, which made both Neil and Renee laugh. Erik’s parents and a few of the elders from the island joined in the dance, and Renee and the rest of the guests clapped their hands in time to the music. Eventually the elders left the stage and the beat of the music shifted.

 __

Nicky and Erik’s first dance was a waltz. They didn’t look to have had formal dancing lessons, but Renee could see that this wasn’t their first time dancing together. Their bodies knew each other; they knew intrinsically where the other would step before they even moved. Neither seemed able to stop smiling, and Renee felt overwhelmingly happy for them. They had found each other and fought for each other and now they could spend forever together.

 __

“Aren’t they wonderful together?” Katelyn asked, leaning into Renee’s side so she could be heard without speaking loudly.

 __

Renee only nodded. “Will you and Aaron marry?”

 __

Katelyn’s smile widened as she nodded back. She was so obviously in love, and Renee was glad that she and Aaron had managed to find each other too.

 __

“Inshallah,” Katelyn said. “We haven’t set a date yet, but hopefully before we go to Hajj—especially if my parents have anything to say about it. They love him. Ever since Aaron decided to convert to Universalism all I hear is _‘Katelyn, when will you and Aaron marry? When will you bring me grandchildren?’”_ She laughed to herself at a memory and added, “My dad won’t stop talking about how he wants to teach Aaron how to weave carpets.”

 __

Renee smiled as she imagined it. “Write to me about it?”

 __

“Of course,” Katelyn said, and then paused. “You’ll have to let me know where to address it to.”

 __

Renee opened her mouth to reply, to tell Katelyn that the _Foxhole_ would be stopping at the graceyards after North-East 1, but then the music shifted again and around Renee the guests moved to form a circle around Nicky and Erik. Katelyn grabbed Renee’s hand and tugged her toward the stage, and they joined the circle between one of Erik’s sisters—Clara, Renee thought her name was—and Erik’s mother. The circle span slowly to the right, and above them the lights of the _Foxhole Circus_ danced in vibrant shades of red and gold, purple and green. A single spotlight of blue split the mid-evening air, and Renee looked up to see Allison on red aerial silks, holding the brim of Dan’s top hat to her head. Allison had changed the styling of her braids again, so they hung down her back but were pinned away from her face. Her costume had been designed to resemble Dan’s ringmaster jacket, but without the trailing material that would render her performance unsafe. It wasn’t until Allison spoke that Renee realised what was happening.

 __

WELCOME TO THE _FOXHOLE CIRCUS_ , Allison called, her voice just as loud as Dan’s and Wymack’s but with a note of musicality and swagger. THANK YOU FOR COMING TO CELEBRATE THE UNION OF NICHOLAS HEMMICK AND ERIK KLOSE. OUR COSTUMES MAY DULL WITHOUT HIM— Laughter flickered up to the big top like the smoke of a campfire. BUT NORTH-EAST 5 WILL FOREVER BRIGHTEN WITH HIS PRESENCE.

 __

Renee joined the rest of the crowd in their cheers, while Nicky made a dramatic show of blowing Allison a kiss. Allison mimed catching it, and then released the kiss with a handful of glitter. Sparkles cascading down upon Erik’s mother like snow, and Allison called, FIRST TO DANCE WITH OUR DEAR NICKY IS OLGA. With her other hand Allison threw another handful of glitter toward the back of the stage, and another spotlight—this time in red—hit the stage curtains of the _Foxhole Circus._ Between the gap, Dan stepped out, still dressed in the same yellow as the dress she wore for the wedding ceremony, but instead of a skirt her costume had become a jumpsuit. Dan made her way to Erik just as Allison called, AND DAN WILDS WILL BE TAKING ERIK OFF YOUR HANDS.

 __

“Keep your hands to yourself, Wilds!” Nicky yelled over Olga’s shoulder as they waltzed across the deck in the opposite direction that Dan was leading Erik.

 __

“No promises!” Dan yelled back, the satin material of her wide-leg trousers flowing with every movement, like the wings of a butterfly in flight.

 __

Allison continued to call out names of guests as they were invited to dance with either Nicky or Erik, but with the exception of Dan, none of the other Foxes revealed themselves. Renee didn’t mind; she was more than content to keep her attention on Allison and Allison alone. The circle continued to spin, but it grew tighter and tighter around Nicky and Erik and their ever-shifting partners as guests grew tired and took seats in the stands. Mezcal was still flowing freely, and Renee wondered how much they had left. The _Foxhole’_ s store had been full when Renee boarded, but even an entire cargo’s load couldn’t last forever.

 __

Eventually the ring of guests dissipated and Nicky and Erik stood alone on the stage, breathing heavily. Dan had disappeared behindcurtains at some point. A single spotlight followed Allison as she slowly climbed down her silks until her feet hit the deck soundlessly. AND NOW, Allison said to the now-hushed crowd. THE SNAKE DANCE.

 __

Renee didn’t know what the snake dance entailed, and from the expressions of those around her, most of the guests didn’t either. They didn’t look any less excited for it, though. They watched with wide eyes as Matt brought out two huge chairs made of cast iron. Matt placed them in the centre of the deck, and directed Nicky and Erik to stand on them.

 __

HERE STAND YOUR NEW NEIGHBOURS. TWO MEN WHO HAVE BEEN SEPARATED FOR YEARS FOR FAMILIAL LOVE AND HONOUR. WILL YOU STAND BY THEM AND SUPPORT THEM?

 __

The crowd cheered, and Allison grinned. THEN PROVE IT. COME TO THEM. HOLD THEM AS STEADY AS THE VERY EARTH YOU WALK ON.

 __

The music grew louder as guests climbed down from the stands and onto the stage. Islanders grasped onto the iron chairs and those closest to the couple held onto their legs and arms. Nicky pulled Renee and Katelyn closer and clasped their hands. He and Erik weren’t going anywhere.

 __

THEY HAVE COME BACK TO YOU TODAY TO FINALLY PLANT THEIR ROOTS , Allison said, climbing down from her silks. While the islanders’ attention had shifted, Allison had dropped Dan’s hat down onto the side of the stage.

 __

Allison stepped toward the steadfast islanders, and pulled at the shoulders of her costume. It appeared to rip, but when it fell it revealed a new costume underneath. The top was skin-tight and pale blue, and the skirt long and loose, made of the same blue but splashes of silver and gold. She looked like the sea incarnate, and Renee was entranced.

 __

Allison caught Renee staring and grinned. Her voice was as loud as it had been moments before, but Renee felt like this time, Allison was addressing her directly. BUT WILL THE SEA LET THEM GO?

 __

From behindcurtains, the rest of the Foxes raced out onto the stage, dressed in shades of blue and green. They ran toward the islanders, leaping and ducking and rolling like the very waves of the sea. Between them they held blue ribbons, raising and lowering them with every step. They circled around the islanders—still holding onto Nicky and Erik’s chairs—and then weaved between them. Renee understood the dance’s name; the Foxes had created a serpent of the sea, slithering between and around the couple as the music soared around the big top.

 __

Above the music Allison started to sing out, TO THE SNAKE, THE SNAKE, OF THE SEA, OF THE SEA, ALL OF YOU CAN PASS THROUGH HERE. The snake continued to weave between the islanders, quickening and quickening as the music continued to rise. One by one each Fox was separated from the rest, and the ribbons were snapped away from their hands as Allison continued to sing. THOSE UP FRONT RUN QUICKLY, THOSE AT BACK ARE LEFT BEHIND. The music began to quieten as the snake began to shorten, until eventually only Nicky and Erik and the islanders remained.

 __

Allison stepped forward, and picked up Dan’s ringmaster hat. She set it atop her head once more, and somehow the orange velvet of the hat worked with her blue dress. Renee doubted that anyone else could pull it off, but Allison did.

 __

YOU HAVE HELD THEM STEADY , Allison said, breathing heavily. YOU HAVE KEPT THEM STRONG. THEY HAVE PROMISED EACH OTHER THEIR UNQUESTIONING SUPPORT AND LOVE, BUT I ASK YOU TO VOW THE SAME. She addressed Nicky directly, and added, IT’S WHAT THEY DESERVE.

 __

Renee helped Nicky step down from his chair while one of the island elders helped Erik do the same. Nicky made his way to Allison and hugged her. He must have said something too because it wasn’t long before Allison shoved him away. Nicky just laughed delightedly as Allison’s face warmed. Renee wasn’t in on the joke, but she still smiled. She was glad Allison had a family, people she could fall back on when Renee had to leave.

 __

She pushed the thought away. It was Nicky’s special day, and she would be happy for him. She _was_ happy for him.

 __

Allison collected herself and directed the islanders back to their seats, for the second performance would begin shortly.

 __

Settled in the stands once again, the islanders were shown stories of the past and the present from the _Foxhole Circus._ While Allison had taken Dan’s role as ringmaster, Dan and Matt came onstage together. Dan’s dance was fluid and soft; in her new costume of rose pink she looked like a faerie floating within a garden of flowers. Matt had left his swords behindcurtains and joined Dan’s act as her partner. He lifted and spun her higher and higher as her movements wove worlds within each beat of music.

 __

Neil and his fox performed an act of unlikely friendship. For the first half of their dance they kept to opposite sides of the stage, circling each other while pretending not to see their mirror. Around Neil, layered spotlights created an illusion of forestry. Sometimes Renee could almost _swear_ she saw the wood of the _Foxhole’_ s main mast stretching and warping in time to the band’s song. Neil left a trail of silken flowers behind him, and when he slowly walked the edge of the stage the fox followed. She jumped from flower to flower, weaving a pattern onstage as she trailed her companion. Neil stopped and spun, and then the fox stopped and spun. Together they walked backwards until they bumped into each other. Their movements mirrored, two halves of a whole, until the fox leapt onto Neil’s shoulders and Neil danced them behindcurtains once more.

 __

Allison announced the interval. Although there would be a break in performances, the excitement continued. Renee hadn’t noticed them leave, but a handful of islanders climbed back up the gangplank. They held an enormous cake between them on a small table. It was a hollow ring in shape, as wide as a tree trunk and at least three feet tall. Renee didn’t know what kind of cake it was, for it was covered entirely in chocolate.

 __

The Foxes returned from behindcurtains just as the islanders approached the stands, and Renee laughed when she saw how Andrew’s attention zeroed in on the cake. The islanders set the cake in front of Nicky and Erik, and Renee could see delicate white icing that depicted North-East 5, North-West 8, and the sea between them. She thought she could make out the Foxhole Circus sailing toward the tiny row of graceyards, but a knife cut between them as Nicky and Erik cut the cake together.

 __

They pulled out a thin slice of the cake, and thin golden rings of vanilla batter were revealed. Renee could tell that this cake was inspired by the World Tree: the layering resembled tree rings. Nicky and Erik had elected not to have their faces shoved into the cake—though many of the Foxes had disputed this and joked about doing it anyway—but they fed each other a bite each. One of the islanders brought out an old camera, and Renee’s eyes widened at the sight of it. Cameras were incredibly expensive, and the paper even more so. She made sure not to distract either Nicky or Erik when they posed for a photo. Nicky called over the Foxes to join them for another photo, and Dan yelled at Renee and Katelyn to hurry up and get in the frame.

 __

“Are you sure?” Renee asked, hovering on the sidelines. “I don’t want to intrude.”

 __

“Intrude?” Kevin echoed, with a confused look to Allison. Renee followed his gaze, mirroring his expression.

 __

“Come on,” Allison said, ignoring the unspoken question. “You’re as much a Fox as any of us.”

 __

After the photos, the Foxes joined the rest of the wedding guests in eating cake and drinking mezcal. Abby brought more juice, and Renee, Katelyn, Aaron, and Kevin all helped themselves to a cup. It was pear juice this time, though Renee was sure she tasted a hint of raspberry.

 __

The Foxes didn’t drink enough to get drunk. They still had a second act to perform. Eventually Dan pushed Nicky back toward the stands and led her crew behindcurtains once again. Renee retook her seat beside Katelyn, and accepted a small bowl of fruit when one of the islanders offered it to her. She wasn’t keen on the cranberries, but she’d never tried a fig before and was pleasantly surprised.

 __

Katelyn grimaced after scooping out the soft flesh of her own fig. “Want to trade?”

 __

Renee poured her cranberries into Katelyn’s bowl, and accepted the other fruit.

 __

A little while later the music changed again to announce the start of the second act. Renee had watched all of the Foxes practice, but she had no idea what each performance would look like onstage with another, with bright lights and dramatic music setting the scene.

 __

It started with a pitch black stage. Heavy drumbeat filled the bigtop, and in the darkness Renee thought she saw movement onstage. She wasn’t sure until a breath of fire shot up into the air and the crowd gasped. If she squinted she could just make out Seth’s face in the firelight before he ducked out of sight. More columns of flames lit up the stage in time to the rhythmic drum, but on the sixth beat a beam of orange light shot down to meet the fire. When the fire dissipated the light remained. The next six columns of fire were the same, and soon the stage had a hazy orange glow with Seth dancing between beams. In the centre of the stage, within a beam of light, orange silks were lowered. Renee tried to see Aaron atop the yard but in the darkness he was rendered invisible.

 __

The silks parted and from a cocoon bloomed Allison, wearing a bodysuit as orange as the light shrouding her. The silks were wrapped around her hips, but she held herself posed and poised as Aaron lowered her down. Before her feet touched the deck, she leaned down and took Seth’s forearm. Aaron started to pull her up once more and Renee realised it had to be more than just Aaron up on the yard; as Allison was pulled back up to the darkness of the big top Seth was pulled up with her.

 __

Once the two were out of sight, Renee looked back down to the stage floor so she could spot the next performers. Her gaze snapped back up when she caught movement in the corner of her eye. Above her she saw Neil leap from a platform. In another beam of orange light a trapeze bar was waiting for him, and his hands clasped around it. He swung once, twice, and then pulled himself up to stand on the bar, hands clutched around the ropes for balance.

 __

Across the stage the lights dimmed, and Neil vanished into the darkness. A new orange spotlight lit Kevin high up on a platform on the mizzenmast. Kevin’s costume mimicked his flame tattoos, with mirrored patterns of geometrical shapes. Renee couldn’t see the detailing from her seat, but she knew each line of colour was made from intricate beading and stitchwork. He unhooked his own trapeze bar and tested his grip. When he jumped, the spotlight followed him across the stage. Kevin used his momentum to swing himself upright, reworking his grip as he pulled himself to stand on his hands, his legs and feet pointing skyward. Renee watched slack jawed; she had no idea Kevin had been rehearsing. Whenever she saw the Foxes practice Kevin had kept his feet firmly on the deck of the _Foxhole_ and instructed from there. One look at Andrew hovering offstage, just visible around the side of the salt-roughened curtains, showed that Kevin’s surprise wasn’t surprising to all. Renee wondered how long he had been sneaking off with Andrew and Neil to practice his trapeze act, to recover from what Riko had done to him.

 __

Kevin spun on his bar, and when he shifted his weight to swing single-handed, the rest of the spotlights were lit. The stage was consumed in that hazy orange glow once again.

 __

Renee shifted her gaze to Neil again and found that he had lowered himself to hang upside down, his knees hooked over the bar as anchorage.

 __

When the music shifted, Renee recognised the underlying drumbeat from eight years ago. Under the black curtain of the _Circus Evermore’_ s big top, Kevin and Riko’s trapeze act had been a test of skill. It had been orchestrated to settle a score, to finally see which brother was best. In the warm glow of the _Foxhole Circus,_ Kevin and Neil mirrored the _Evermore’_ s act and expanded on it. It wasn’t a test, it was art. They had no time for petty rivalry; they would work together and achieve what had never been done before. Renee saw the future of the _Foxhole Circus_ stretch out ahead of them, a testimony of growth, of family, of overcoming life’s challenges.

 __

Neil wasn’t experienced enough to make the leap across the stage from one bar to another, but it didn’t matter. He had time to learn, and Kevin wanted to teach him. Renee hadn’t witnessed it herself, but it was clear that Kevin had been practicing for much longer. He used his momentum on his trapeze bar and swung. And let go. And caught onto Neil’s wrists. Neil’s grip around Kevin’s own wrists was firm and steady. Neil swung Kevin back and forth, and Kevin swung his body with the motion. With each swing Kevin was raised higher and higher, until Kevin flung himself across the stage to land on another platform into a finishing pose.

 __

The islanders erupted into cheers, and Renee cheered with them, Nicky screaming and yelling his praise loudest of all.

 __

Neil reworked his position on his own trapeze bar and swung himself to another platform with his own flourish. The crowd continued to cheer through it all. On the deck of the _Foxhole_ the rest of the circus folk slipped out from behindcurtains in varying shades of orange and red and gold. They weaved and twirled ribbons around each other and danced and cartwheeled across the stage. One of their own was leaving them that night, but they would celebrate his life as a Fox with as much glamour as Nicky had given them during his time in the circus.

 __

The show ended with clouds of glitter shooting up under the big top, and Allison stood centre stage with her family surrounding her. Renee joined the rest of the islanders as they stood from their seats and clapped in thunderous applause. The leather of her gloves muffled the sound of her own claps so she only clapped harder. She wanted Allison and the rest of the Foxes to know how much she had loved the show and them. She would remember it for the rest of her life, and she could only hope that they would remember her too. The night would end with fireworks and the morning would start with atole. They would go to the cemetery and the blackshore and pay their respects to their ancestors, their family, their friends. Seth had saved some white lilies for Janie; they were a little wilted, but they were beautiful. By the midday sun the islanders would return to their houses and Nicky would stay on North-East 5 when the _Foxhole Circus_ weighed anchor and sailed west once more. They would drop Katelyn off at North-East 1, and Aaron would leave with her.

 __

And then they would reach the equator,

 __

the doldrums,

 __

Renee’s graceyard.

 __

“Hey,” a voice said, and Renee startled. She looked up to see Allison standing before her, her arms resting on the railing of the stands. Renee hadn’t heard her approach.

 __

“Hi,” Renee said.

 __

Allison tipped her head to the side, a coy smile playing at her lips. “Wanna get out of here?”

 __

Renee raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think someone would notice if we started heading to the coracles.”

 __

Allison laughed and it sounded like summer, colourful and bright and radiant. And finite. Renee would miss her laugh most of all.

 __

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Walker. I meant for a walk.”

 __

 _Ah._ Renee supposed it was time they talked about… it. That. She didn’t want to name it. She wanted to think of anything else, but she supposed it might make their goodbye a little easier.

 __

She nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice. Not yet. She rose from her seat and took Allison’s offered hand.

 __

Allison didn’t take them far, just onto the blackshore and a little further down the beach. The sea was still close, still present. Renee tried to draw strength from it.

 __

Allison watched her closely. “Is it easier?”

 __

“What?”

 __

“Being near the sea.”

 __

“Sometimes,” Renee said, and then, because she was being honest. “And sometimes it makes everything a lot harder.”

 __

“Like what?”

 __

Renee breathed, tried to put it into words. “Existing? Sometimes I get so used to this version of myself that I forget who I was before. Sometimes I can’t seem to shake her off. I’m just trying to be better.”

 __

“For who?”

 __

The question startled Renee. She didn’t even have an answer. “I don’t know. Myself, I think. Stephanie always made it out like I was saving my soul but…”

 __

Allison only waited. Renee didn’t want to finish that sentence yet. She wanted to stay in this moment, with the smell of salt in her lungs and the rushing of the tides in her ears and the sight of Allison before her, the wind playing with her braids and clothes and the gracefeather she wore around her neck.

 __

“Sometimes I don’t think I have a soul. That I lost it, either with what I’ve done or...” She looked down at her gloves. Without another word she pulled them off. When she looked at the waves of ink on her skin she thought of the icing on Nicky’s wedding cake. When she looked at her hands she didn’t think of her tattoos or the power they represented, she could only remember Allison’s fingers linked between her own.

 __

Allison stepped forward and tentatively reached for Renee’s hands. She didn’t interlock their fingers like Renee had imagined, she just held them, cupped Renee’s hands within her own, sheltering them from the wind, the sun, the world.

 __

“If your soul disappeared because you protected yourself then souls are fickle bastards who hold no value,” Allison said matter-of-factly.

 __

Renee huffed out a laugh. “And if I was born without one? Maybe it’s different for me.”

 __

“Look around you. Look at me. Look at the Foxes. Is it so bad to be different? We’ve been told our entire lives that we’re not good enough for this world, that we have to fight for our place. Well we found it. We don’t belong anywhere because we can belong everywhere. We have a boat. We can stay still or we can keep moving; it’s entirely our choice. Not theirs. Not the fuckers who told us no. We can see everything, be everything. There is so much of the world that we haven’t been to yet, but I know that we’ll discover them.” Allison chewed her lip, and Renee didn’t think she’d ever seen Allison this nervous before. “I want us to discover them together.”

 __

“I—”

 __

“You’re already one of us, Renee,” Allison interrupted. “And before you start thinking about it: you wouldn’t be a burden. You won’t even need to perform. You can dive deeper and longer than anyone else, I’ll bet. When we go diving for fish and coral and mother-of-pearl to trade, I bet you’ll get the best and brightest and most beautiful. You’ll be able to find such wonderful things.”

 __

“I—” Renee tried again, but Allison slapped her hand over Renee’s mouth.

 __

“Wait! I’m not done! Because if you want to perform I already have so many ideas. You can be a gracekeeper, or a sea witch, or both. I’ve seen your magic. I’ve seen you bend the sea to your will. Think of that under the big top. Think of that with stage lights and glitter and music. I could teach you to be an aerialist. We could perform together on matching silks and you could weave water between us. We could make it look like an illusion, make the clams think that it’s not really magic. We would be safe but we would be exceptional. Can’t you picture it? You would be exceptional.”

 __

Renee wrapped her hand around Allison’s wrist, bare skin touching bare skin. She pulled Allison’s hand away from her mouth, and curled Allison’s fingers into a fist. She kissed her knuckles.

 __

“I was going to say,” she started, and looked up at Allison. Her eyes were so dark Renee felt that they would consume her. She was ready for it, wanting for it. “That I love you.”

 __

There was a pause.

 __

“Oh.”

 __

Renee grinned. “Yeah. Oh.”

 __

“Oh god,” Allion groaned, bringing her other hand up to her face and covering her eyes before pushing it back down and taking Renee’s other hand again. “No. No, I’m not ruining this moment. This is gonna be great. I just waxed poetics about you and you said that you love me for the first time so I’m going to say it back.” She exhaled, holding her head high and looking down at Renee with so much pride and affection and love that Renee felt like she was about to burst.

 __

“I love you, too,” Allison said, confidently and unquestioningly. She didn’t doubt it for a second, and Renee didn’t either. “And I want you to stay.”

 __

Renee wrapped her bare hands around Allison’s neck and brought her down gently. She pressed their foreheads together. “I want to stay, too,” she murmured against Allison’s lips. “Maybe forever.”

 __

“Then forever it is,” Allison said. “Now shut up and kiss me. I owe Dan the rest of my mezcal so I’d like to enjoy this as much as I can before she ruins my streak of winning bets.”

 __

Renee wasn’t surprised that Dan knew this conversation was going to happen; suddenly the Foxes’ reactions to Renee’s apparent surety that she would return to the graceyards made a lot more sense. But she didn’t kiss her yet. “You thought I’d say no?”

 __

Allison shook her head. “We both know you’d say yes. Dan just bet that I’d make a fool of myself first.”

 __

Renee laughed, and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. Behind them the sea stretched to the horizon, silver bright and busy with possibilities.

 __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there a circus-alternative to _and that's a wrap?_ i feel like i need to end this with jazz hands.
> 
> to anyone reading this now: thank you so much for sticking with this until the end, it's been so fun to write and to work with Ly (again, check out their pieces [here](https://adverbialstarlight.tumblr.com/post/628082538309648384/allison-climbed-her-silks-they-had-been-dyed) and [here](https://adverbialstarlight.tumblr.com/post/628898912336576512/my-second-and-final-piece-for-wishboneteas-fic), because i can't stop looking at them).
> 
> i made a [book cover](https://wishbonetea.tumblr.com/post/631262284448235520/%F0%9D%90%AD%F0%9D%90%A1%F0%9D%90%9E-%F0%9D%90%A0%F0%9D%90%AB%F0%9D%90%9A%F0%9D%90%9C%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%A4%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%A9%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%AB%F0%9D%90%AC-the-sea-has-flooded-the-earth) for this fic, and there's [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5BAnR5xegOpwsIYzbpuXru) i made right at the start of the event and low-key forgot about (but there are a couple songs where the lyrics line up so perfectly i'm still floored).
> 
> feel free to scream at me for making this infuriatingly slow-burning, and keep an eye out for my next wip which will be _so_ slow burn that this fic will seem like a one-shot 👀


	20. glossary

**anchorage** \ ˈaŋ-k(ə-)rij \ a means of securing; a source of reassurance

**becalm** \ˈbi-ˈkäm \ to leave (a sailing vessel) unable to move due to lack of wind

**behindcurtains** \ bi-ˈhīnd-ˈkər-tənz \ of, relating to, or occurring in the area behind the stage curtains

**belaying pin** \ bi-ˈlā-ˌiŋ-ˈpin \ a short metal rod to which a ship’s rigging is secured, commonly used as an improvised weapon as they’re accessible and the right size and weight to be used as clubs

**blackshore** \ ˈblak-ˌshȯr \ part of the seashore, named after the seaweed brought up by the high tide

**bilge rat** \ ˈbilj-ˈrat \ a rat living in the bilge of a ship, the lowest point of a ship’s inner hull; a common insult amongst damplings

**binnacle** \ ˈbi-ni-kəl \ a box on the deck of a ship holding the ship’s compass

**brail** \ ˈbrāl \ a rope fastened to the leech of a sail and used for hauling the sail up or in

**brig** \ ˈbrig \ a place for temporary confinement aboard a ship

**bulwark** \ ˈbə-ˌläk \ the side of a ship above the upper deck

**byakko** \ ˈbī-ə-ˈk-ü \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing west

**captain’s wisdom** \ ˈkap-tənz-ˈwiz-dəm \ often traditional superstitions based on the stories of damplings

**caulk** \ ˈkȯk \ to stop up and make tight against leakage

**chandler** \ ˈchan(d)-lər \ a dealer in provisions and supplies or equipment of a specified kind

**cordage** \ ˈkȯr-dij \ the ropes in the rigging of a ship

**cutter** \ ˈkə-tər \ a single-masted fore-and-aft rigged sailing vessel

**dampling** \ ˈdamp-liŋ \ a person born at sea

**deadlights** \ ˈded-ˌlītz \ a metal shutter fitted to a porthole or cabin window to keep out light and water

**dreg** \ ˈdreg \ sediment contained in a liquid or precipitated from it

**flotsam** \ ˈflät-səm \ the wreckage of a ship or its cargo found floating on or washed up by the sea

**forecastle** \ˈfȯr-ˌka-səl \ the crew's quarters of a ship, usually in a ship's bow

**furl** \ ˈfərl \ to roll up and secure, especially a ship’s sail

**grace** \ ˈgrās \ a small bird used in the mourning service of those who die at sea

**gracekeeper** \ ˈgrās-ˌkē-pər \ a person who tends to the graves of those who die at sea

**hardtack** \ ˈhärd-ˌtak \ bread made from flour and water baked into a moisture-free rock to prevent spoilage

**jacob’s ladder** \ ˈjā-kəbz-ˈla-dər \ a rope ladder with wooden rungs used to access a ship from the side

**keel** \ kēl \ the underside of a ship which becomes covered in barnacles after sailing the seas

**landlocker** \ ˈland-lä-kər \ a person born on land

**landlubber** \ ˈland-ˌlə-bər \ a person unfamiliar with the sea or seamanship, from the root of _lubber,_ meaning clumsy or uncoordinated

**league** \ ˈlēg \ a unit of distance equal to three nautical miles

**pinnace** \ ˈpi-nəs \ a light boat propelled by sails or oars, used as a tender for merchant vessels

**quadrant** \ ˈkwä-drənt \ a navigation tool used to measure the altitude of the sun

**quartermaster** \ ˈkwȯr-tər-ˌmas-tər \ the highest ranking dampling on a ship under the captain, usually elected by the crew

**ratline** \ ˈrat-lən \ transverse ropes attached to the shrouds of a ship so as to form the steps of a rope ladder

**resting** \ ˈre-stiŋ \ a ceremony connected with the final disposition of a person who died at sea

**rigging** \ ˈri-giŋ \ the system of ropes, wires and chains used to support and operate the masts, sails, booms and yards of a ship

**rudder** \ ˈrə-dər \ an underwater blade positioned at the stern of a boat that when turned, causes the vessel's head to turn in the same direction

**schooner** \ ˈskü-nər \ a fore-and-aft rigged sailing vessel having at least two masts, with a foremast that is usually smaller than the other masts

**scuppers** \ ˈskə-pər \ openings along the edges of a ship's deck that allow water on deck to drain back into the sea

**seiryu** \ sār-ˈyü \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing east

**sepia** \ ˈsē-pē-ə \ a brown melanin-containing pigment from the ink of cuttlefishes

**sough** \ ˈsau̇ \ a moaning, whistling, or rushing sound as made by the wind in the trees or the sea

**spyglass** \ ˈspī-ˌglas \ a small telescope

**suzaku** \ ˈsü-ˌza-ˌkō \ a guardian of the four cardinal directions, representing south

**swell** \ ˈswel \ a slow, regular movement of the sea in rolling waves that do not break

**tender** \ ˈten-dər \ a small boat towed or carried by a larger ship

**weigh anchor** \ ˈwā-ˈaŋ-kər \ to haul up the anchor; to leave

**will-o’-the-wisp** \ ˌwil-ə-t͟hə-ˈwisp \ an atmospheric ghost light seen by travelers at night

**windward** \ ˈwind-wərd \ facing the wind or on the side facing the wind

**yard** \ ˈyärd \ a long spar tapered toward the ends to support and spread the head of a square sail


End file.
